Three Heads of the Dragon 1: A Crown of Bones
by Rougeification
Summary: The Targaryens reign across Westeros with sheer might and power. As King Rhaegon Targaryen II grows ill on his death bed, the Targaryens desperately seek a match for the youngest Prince. War in the North, skirmishes in the West, and plotting in the South, the Seven Kingdoms start to fracture.
1. Character Form

**So, guys, I've decided to try my hand at this. Bear in mind that updates may not be often or frequent, but I'll be trying to update around twice a month – this will pick up in a few months when I've finished my last year of university.**

 **Anyway, here's the current state of the Seven Kingdoms:**

 _ **Over a hundred years before Robert's Rebellion, the Targaryens reign across Westeros with sheer might and power. Dragons still roam the skies, and Targaryens love reminding their subjects of this. Lord Baratheon serves as Hand of the King in King's Landing, and the King, Rhaegon Targaryen I grows ill on his death bed.**_

 **What I need are a bunch of characters. I'll be creating about three characters – this will include villains (since few people want to create villains). So, here are the primary houses that I will be focusing on:**

 **Targaryen**

 **Baratheon**

 **Stark**

 **Tyrell**

 **Just because these are the main houses I've been focusing on, it doesn't mean I won't include other houses. For instance, a member of the House of Arryn might be fostered in Storm's End. Depending on how quickly I'll be getting characters sent to me, I may post a chapter this evening (UK time).**

 **WARNING: Characters will die. Main characters, side characters, minor characters… I may accept a character and kill them immediately. I may accept a character, use them as a minor role, and then they end up as a main character. To be honest, I've got a rough idea of what's going to happen, and how this will end, but I don't really know how we're going to get there… Just a heads up – I want to mimic Martin's realism and… well, general literary sadism. So, you've been warned…**

 **Name:**

 **Titles: (i.e. Ser / Lord / Princess / Lord Commander…)**

 **Alias: (i.e. The Hound, The Mountain, The Young Wolf, Littlefinger – you must state the origin of this in their background)**

 **Occupation: (Knight, Master-at-Arms, Handmaiden, Septa, Squire)**

 **Age:**

 **Sexuality:**

 **Gender:**

 **Religion: (i.e. The Drowned God, the Red God, the Seven, the Old Gods)**

 **Appearance: (Body, Hair colour and style, Eyes, Face etc. Be fairly detailed)**

 **Clothing: (Mainly their style of clothes, but you can include outfits if you want).**

 **Background: (Everything that has happened to them since birth until the story starts)**

 **Personality: (At least three paragraphs)**

 **Types of people they like:**

 **Types of people they dislike:**

 **Romance: (Are you open to your character having a romance? What sort of character do you want them to be paired with?)**

 **Strengths:**

 **Weaknesses:**

 **Plot Suggestions:**

 **Weapons: (If any. Give a basic description. The maximum amount is** _ **two**_ **weapons to carry). Bear in mind, Valyrian Steel is still a rarity. Only the Great Houses and a few of their sworn houses possess them.)**

 **Armour: (If your character wears any. This includes shields. Also, the less armour someone has in battle, the more likely they'll be killed.)**

 **Extra Info: (i.e. favourite drinks, foods, stories, songs, hobbies…)**

 **Opinions on…**

 **Targaryens:**

 **Baratheons:**

 **Starks:**

 **Tyrells:**

 **Greyjoys:**

 **I'll be putting this on my profile, so feel free to copy and paste. PM ONLY with "A Crown of Bones – [Character Name] – [House]"**


	2. Prologue: The Blind and the Bold

**So, I'm kind of surprised by the lack of applications, but I'll work with what I've got. So far, here are the accepted characters:**

 **Prince Draegor Targaryen (23) -** _ **Seraphius**_

 **Prince Viserys Targaryen (18) –** _ **Shin Alter**_

 **Prince Aeron Targaryen (22) –** _ **Myself**_

 **Ser Richard Dayne (24) – Member of the Kingsguard –** _ **BlaketheEpicArgonian**_

 **Ser Mikal Drake (25) – Member of the Kingsguard –** _ **.167**_

 **This is just a prologue – something to introduce the story. But, I desperately need more characters. Now, here's what I need:**

 **Starks**

 **Boltons**

 **Baratheons**

 **Tyrells**

 **Lannisters**

 **Now, if you don't like the Lannisters or the Boltons, that's fair, but remember, this story is set before the events on the show by a good 200 years or so. They don't need to necessarily be sadistic or incestuous. You're allowed to submit ONE OC for each House.**

 **Moreover, the story will revolve mainly around these three locations:**

 **Westeros:**

 **King's Landing**

 **Winterfell**

 **Dragonstone**

 **Storm's End**

 **Highgarden**

 **Essos:**

 **Braavos**

 **Yunkai**

 **So, when writing your characters, I'll be placing them at one of these locations. Also, I'd like some more female characters…**

 **The Blind and the Bold**

 _The Red Keep, King's Landing_

 _Lord Ryon Baratheon, Hand of the King_

Usually, a prince's nameday was supposed to be a widely anticipated and extravagant event. It gave the poor a distraction, and the noble an occasion to mix and mingle. Not to mention that it also provided an opportunity for the maids of houses to find a suitable match, Gods willing.

However, there would be no such luck. In the years that followed Draegor's blinding, he had become sullen, and withdrawn from most appearances at Court. No longer able to swing a sword in tourneys, or read the histories of his forefathers, Draegor had very little use for anything anymore.

Of course, I had made arrangements for a feast. It was, after all, the first week of summer. And we needed to celebrate our bountiful harvests. Wild boar, crackling pork, the finest Arbor red and gold, honeycakes and lemoncakes, with long tables stacked for miles.

Needless to say, there was only one table that one would think to mention: the table of the monarchy.

King Rhaegon I was absent from the table. In the past four years, he had become increasingly ill. Only a handful of people had been to see him, myself included. Even then, he said his goodbyes to me, and given me his instructions for what would happen upon his death: Draegor would inherit the throne, Viserys would preside over Dragonstone, and Aeron would stay in King's Landing to advise his older brother.

At the table, sat Draegor the Blind, his silver hair warmer than his family's, falling gracefully past his shoulders. He wore long robes of scarlet, resembling some sort of Valyrian Maester rather than a prince. His eyes, whiter than his skin, glanced around beneath a heavy brow as he wrinkled his nose about the plate in front of him, dabbing his fork around his plate in an attempt to find the pork.

Looking over him from the side was his younger brother, Viserys. He had a certain beauty that was only found in Targaryens: with a soft, rounded face and strong violet eyes, Viserys' long hair flowed and weaved down to the back of his neck. But what everyone was abuzz about, was the famous story of Viserys' gruesome scar.

Little more than two year ago, Viserys was commanding a legion of Targaryen soldiers, on a mission to defend a small fishing village from the raiding parties of the Ironborn. Viserys had no place doing this. True, he was talented with a sword, and he was no coward, but a prince had no business dealing with something so small. But, he is known as Viserys the Bold for a very obvious reason. There were conflicting rumours about what happened – some said Viserys suffered the wound from a fight with the Ironborn, others said Viserys was so foolish with a sword, he cut himself in battle. But, Viserys never said a word about what truly occurred. All I knew for certain, was that the night he received that wound, the soldiers adored him more than any other prince I'd read of.

Sat on the other side of Draegor was his brother. Aeron Targaryen. His features were sharp and angular – one might think to cut their hand from striking his cheek. Aeron was unlike his brothers, as he never carried a sword. He was too concerned with his cropped silver hair, his ornate and ruby-encrusted clothes, and the wealthiest nobles he consorted with. There was something off-putting about him. Perhaps it was that, until six years ago, he was Aeron Stone, King Rhaegon's bastard boy from the Vale. He had a true name now, but I wasn't so sure if it would wash out the lust and deceit ingrained into his blood.

"Lord Hand," I turned to see a dark and handsome young man approach me, clad in silver armour, which adorned the Targaryen dragon.

"Ser Richard," I nodded.

"I saw fit to inform you, my Lord, that Her Majesty, the Princess, has not been able to enjoy the festivities today."  
"I thought as much…" I was hardly surprised. Rhaegon had been sick for six summers, which had given me his responsibilities to his kingdoms, as well as to his children, "I suppose she's with His Grace?"

"I do not know My Lord," Ser Richard admitted, a hand resting on his greatsword. I looked back to Draegor, who still scratched his fork along the plate. Several of the guests had found this awkward and upsetting, while a few found it humerous. I bit my teeth and grabbed Ser Richard's arm. "Tell Viserys to cut his brother's damned pork."

Ser Richard nodded and began to move towards Viserys' table, and whispered in his ear. Viserys looked over to me; That pink, grisly scar sitting oddly in his skin – it was what people first noticed about him now. 'The Blind and the Bold' the townsfolk called them.

It wouldn't be hard to combat the laughs that Draegor received. My brother in Storm's End would say that these men should be whipped through the streets, but that is because my brother has not ruled in King's Landing as I have. No, I would simply present another side of the Targaryens – the true side. I walked to the front of Draegor's table, and turned around to face the crowds in front of us.

"My Lords," I called out to them, "My Ladies," I bowed my head, "We are here to celebrate the nameday of a man I think of as my own son. As many of you know, Draegor was a distinguished swordsman," I turned back to Draegor, seeing his pale, frozen eyes glance down to the floor as he held the fork loosely in his hand, "But, Draegor had a hand in training his brother, the Prince Viserys!" The crowd erupted into cheers and claps for their prince, who stood up, gracefully bowing his head with a nervous smile before sitting back down. "Prince Draegor suggested it would be wonderful for you all to witness what the tutelage of a Dragon is worth!" I looked around at the Kingsguard, trying to find a worthy opponent.

Ser Richard Dayne, perhaps? The Rising Star, eager to prove himself a shining knight, only twenty and four. But I didn't like the scowl he wore as he examined the hundreds of tables of food and wine. He cast his eyes over it all, wrinkling his nose as though the food had gone foul.

"My Lord?" I turned to Ser Mikal, Lord Larson's Drake's first-born. He was a strapping young man, with curly red hair, and a fiery temper to match.

"Does Ser Mikal wish to duel His Grace?"

"I do, My Lord," Ser Mikal said through gritted teeth. His mismatched eyes peeked out from under his helmet, one sapphire, the other emerald. He gripped his sword, ready for the chance.

"Forgive me, My Lord," Ser Richard stepped forwards, "allow me this honour."

Ser Mikal gave Ser Richard a look of utter contempt. It was hardly surprising, as they were the youngest and newest recruits to the Kingsguard. Ser Mikal was physically dominating, standing an inch higher than myself, and towering above the realm. In battle, he would wield a mighty axe in one hand, his longsword in the other. If he had been born with the name 'Baratheon', I may have grown to like him.

But Ser Richard was a swordsman. The Stars of Dayne had long been a thing of legend, and we all awaited the next Dayne that would ascend to embody their family's noble heritage. And whereas Ser Mikal adored the Targaryens, despite their tendency for madness, Ser Richard was wary of this. He was a true Kingsguard, who would not serve because he wants to, or believes in the crown. No, he would serve because that is his duty. A man like Ser Mikal was far too bold to serve a king. True, it would be incredibly satisfying to watch the petulant and hot-headed Ser Mikal Drake be given a hiding from Viserys. However, one of the greatest dishonours that could be given to a Kingsguard was to be left standing under the canopy, their sword rusting away in its scabbard.

"Ser Richard Dayne," I called, holding out a hand, "come along with His Grace and show us all what two Valyrian swordsmen are capable of!"

There was a loud cheer as Ser Richard smiled towards Viserys, who was presented with his longsword – a beauty with silver wings forged onto the ebony handle which was scaled like a dragon's neck, and on the pommel, was a speckles silver dragonhead. Viserys drew his sword, as did Ser Richard with his large Greatsword. Ser Richard removed his helm, revealing his oak-toned hair, trimmed short with his beard.

Ser Richard held up his lofty blade in both hands, pointing up towards the skies above. Viserys, however, held his longsword by his face, pointing the blade towards Ser Richard. They paced around each other for several moments, examining each other. It reminded me of when I sparred with my brother as a child – Gods, he was a slow learner…

Viserys quickly swept forwards, his blade slicing through the air, and towards Ser Richard's chest plate, only Ser Richard had ducked underneath this, twirling away from him. The crowd gasped and fell silent, a few giggles sounding as we all waited for the two to engage again. Viserys flourished his blade, and struck high, aiming for a shoulder. Ser Richard's blade deflected, and the two began to trade blows, Ser Richard using the weight of his longsword, gliding backwards before Viserys could land a strike. No, Viserys was more of a viper than a dragon, biding his time with precise and vicious jabs. As Ser Richard began to take a step backwards again, Viserys lunged forwards again, eager to finish this show. However, as he lunged, Ser Richard caught his wrist, and turned it until Viserys' sword was about to fall out of his hand. Ser Richard then gently tapped the Prince with the side of his sword.

We all erupted in applause, and I stepped forwards towards the two men, stealing a glance at Ser Mikal's disdain.

"Of course, we are glad to see Ser Richard victorious – how reassuring it is to see a Kingsguard capable of besting a Dragon!" Everyone applauded again, as Viserys let out a laugh. I turned behind myself, to pour three cups of Arbor gold. Handing two to the men, I picked up the third. "But, let us not forget Prince Viserys is still young, and yet to see as many battles as Ser Richard, here." The two men clinked their cups of wine. "To our royal family of Dragons," I raised the up, and turned back towards Draegor the Blind, "and long may they reign!"


	3. The Dragon

**Hey guys! Another little update. This is the first official chapter. Below is a cast list of all accepted characters:**

 **Targaryen**

 **King Rhaegon Targaryen II (48) -** _ **Myself**_ **  
Queen Vysella Targaryen (48) -** _ **Myself**_ **  
Prince Draegor Targaryen (23) -** _ **Seraphius**_ **  
Prince Aeron Targaryen (21) -** _ **Myself**_ _ **  
**_ **Princess Laena Targaryen (19) -** _ **Lacie Castaigne**_ **  
Prince Viserys Targaryen (18) -** _ **Shin Alter**_

 **Ser Richard Dayne (24) - Kingsguard -** _ **BlaketheEpicArgonian**_ **  
Ser Mikal Drake (25) - Kingsguard -** _ **.167**_

 **Baratheon**

 **Lord Rylon Baratheon (54) - Hand of the King -** _ **Myself**_ **  
Lady Haylise Baratheon (20) - Lady at court -** _ **Lacie Castaigne**_ **  
** **Ayric Dondarrian (48) - Maester of Storm's End -** _ **BlaketheEpicArgonian**_

 **Tyrell**

 **Lady Ashriel Tyrell (16) - Handmaiden in King's Landing -** _ **lacrimanightmare**_ _ **  
**_ **Lady Deltyh Tyrell (15) - Lady at Highgarden -** _ **nevershout**_

 **Lannister**

 **Lady Lyra Lannister (18) - Lady at Casterly Rock -** _ **taako**_

 **Bolton**

 **Raff Bolton (21) - Lord at the Dreadfort -** _ **BlaketheEpicArgonian**_

 **Across the narrow sea...**

 **Finn Snow (20) -** _ **Myself**_

 **Rylon Baratheon – King's Landing**

King Rhaegon II of House Targaryen had never truly been a great man. Full of bluster and fury, he had fed many men to his dragon, Vigaron. As a younger man, Rhaegon had been quite strapping, his beautiful silver hair flowing in the wind, piercing violet eyes that made many maids swoon in a second. I still remember the look of disappointment on the faces of many women when it was announced that he was to take his sister, Vysella, for his bride.

Vysella had often been calm and level-headed, unlike her brother. But, Targaryens are cursed with a tendency for the extremes. I remember her screaming at the Septa to stay away from her daughter after the incident; A maid had set fire to the Princess Laena's bed while she slept. Laena survived, if only by the grace of Maester Godwin's skill as a healer. Though, she would carry the scars for the rest of her life. To this day, Vysella had always insisted on teaching her daughter herself. I suppose, it is only natural for a mother to be this way. Since that day, Vysella had been more of a lioness than any Lannister alive today.

I looked at Rhaegon's body. Weak. Frail. Old. We were all old now. Lord Arryn in the Vale could not hear anything quieter than a shout, Lord Tyrell in the Reach would not walk without a cane… But Rhaegon's skin was paler than ever – I could see the skin loosely hanging to his veins like tarps on a line. The wrinkles around his lips set in deeply. The man was not yet fifty, but he came to resemble the corpse of his father.

"I'm afraid there is no improvement, Lord Hand," Maester Godwin sighed, setting down his instruments and remedies on the desk by the window, "though the sickness has not yet spread to his head."

"But, it will?"

"Hard to say at this time…" Maester Godwin turned back to the body, his hands resting gently on his instruments, "but, I fear, it will make no difference."

I looked to Ser Mikal, who stood watch by the King's bedchambers. The man clearly assumed I had done this to spite him – I could see it in his sapphire and emerald eyes, how his hand gripped the hilt of his blade.

"Leave us." I instructed him. I waited for Ser Mikal to bow his head and exit before facing Maester Godwin. "The King will die soon?" I asked in a low whisper.

"Almost certainly."

"When?"

Maester Godwin turned back to the body, brows furrowed, "Difficult to say, really… within the month, I'd estimate."

"A month…" I rubbed my forehead.

"If I could advise my Lord Hand?" I nodded. "Have Draegor sit on the Small Council in place of his father. Have him learn how to rule – he may not be able to swing a sword, but he may be a new sort of king. A type that is wise and fair…"

"You think I haven't asked him? The boy sits in his room, and listens to no-one. Not I, not Viserys, not Laena…" I shook my head.

"Perhaps I could talk to him, my lord-"

"No… you will assemble healers to aid you in the King's recovery."

"Recovery? My Lord…"

"There are Six Kingdoms ruled by this man!" I hissed. "Six! The North is torn apart, fighting each other, the Iron Islands attacking the Westerlands, the hill tribes attack the Vale daily, my own men are in the Stormlands, keeping the Dornish bastards at bay, and you would have me parade a blind man around, telling all that our King is dying?" I shook my head, "I need time to settle these qualms. If there is any sign of weakness, one Kingdom will turn away from the Crown, and if one kingdom does so…"

"Draegor's blindness is not a weakness, my Lord Hand."

"When I want your advice, I will damned well ask for it!" I turned around, and barged through the door, letting it slam into Ser Mikal as I strode down the stone corridors. Damned fool! Blasted idiot! I have been Lord Hand for twenty years. I know more about running the Kingdom than some damned Valeman.

 **Laena Targaryen – King's Landing**

"Rylon can be such an idiot sometimes," I muttered, "I don't know why I'm meant to be there – I'm not the one getting married!"

"You are gaining a sister, Your Grace." Ashriel murmured, plaiting my hair.

"A Baratheon sister," I scoffed, "At least in this big parties it's easy to slip away."

"Your Grace?"

I held Ashriel's hand, and turned to face her: She was a short, girl – sinuous – with dark black hair weaving down past her shoulders like the golden vines on her dress. Those eyes – those golden eyes, wide and trusting. Her face, sculpted like a heart… I couldn't help but run my hand down her cheek, feeling the smooth skin. I wished that this was my reflection. Not the hideous monster I saw in the mirror every morning, with that scalded skin on the right side of my face and neck, skin seared like pork. That patch by my ear I had to cover with plaits every day…

I hated my face.

"At parties with lots of people, they're paying attention to different things."

"But, you're the Princess. Lots of people will be paying attention to you, surely?"

"Not in the way you'd think," I glanced back to the mirror, examining the horrific figure that stared back at me with her violet eyes. "But, I'm sure you can use this to find yourself a husband. Perhaps a…" I looked down at her body. Still yet to have an ample bosom, or a radiant face, "fourth-born? Or, perhaps a Northerner?"

Ashriel smiled and nodded. Not enthusiastically though – Ashriel wasn't a good liar. She spent far too much time burying her little button nose in great big tomes. Usually to do with my family. I picked up my cup of Arbor gold, sipping it as I allowed Ashriel to continue plaiting my hair.

"Do you think she's pretty?" Ashriel asked perculiarly. I say perculiarly, because she sounded so unconcerned, yet she must have been in deep thought about this. Since, after all, she said 'her'.

"Whom?"

"Lady Baratheon."

"…Oh, Haylise?" I asked. "I've never met her. Haylise the Ruined…" I couldn't help but chuckle, "The Lady of Whores – did you know people call her that?"

"No, Your Grace."

"Apparently she's quite the high-born harlot," I informed her, "lost her maidenhead at fourteen to a Storm."

"A Storm?" Ashriel looked down to me.

"A Bastard from the Stormlands."

"I hadn't heard of him being a Storm before."

"Oh yes!" I poured another cup of wine, handing it to Ashriel and staring at her until she drank. Ashriel never drank, so when I made her take a cup of wine with me, it was always great fun. "Well, I mean, Vyla Buckwell told me that he was a Bastard, and it does make it a better story, doesn't it?" I waited until Ashriel had finished taking a sip before filling her cup again. "Have you ever lay with a man?"

Ashriel choked on her wine, "No. No, Your Grace, I don't…"

"Calm yourself, Little Owl," I laughed at her wide eyes, "You don't have to answer me." Ashriel chose not to, and simply drank from her cup of wine. That was enough of an answer for me. I rose from my chair and took the wine from her, placing it on the table. "Come, let's find Viserys."

Ashriel's eyes glimmered as we began to leave my chambers. It wouldn't take long to find Viserys – he was always training with his sword at this time. As the second son, it was common knowledge Viserys was to rule in Dragonstone. However, if you asked Viserys, he longed for a life as a Knight, or a general. It was possible that he could be a general in a time of war, representing the crown, but we weren't at war with anyone. True, there were the petty squabbles in the North between Stark and Bolton, and the Ironborn bastards raided the Westerlands, but we weren't at war with anyone.

Ashriel and I came to the courtyard, where we found Viserys with his sword, sparring against Ser Richard Dayne. Ser Richard was handsome, with warm features and dark Dornish skin. He and Viserys both took a moment's respite to share a cup of wine and laugh together as they began to discuss the training.

"…You always look where you're going to lunge." Ser Richard told my brother.

"Well, I have to see where I'm going."

"Use your eyes."

"I am – you can't see my eyes through the visor."

"No, but you turn your entire head."

Viserys grinned, pushing back his hair as he sipped on the wine. In doing so, he caught sight of Ashriel and I approaching. He gave the cup back to his squire and walked over to me.

"Laena?" He gave me a hug. "What are you doing here?"

"Watching Sir Richard best you, it seems." I walked past him to help myself to a cup of wine, "Dornish Red? Not the finest…" I smiled at Ser Richard, examining his groomed chestnut beard and dark eyes. Gods, Dornish men were so… exotic. That is, Ser Richard was, and he was the only Dornishman in King's Landing, I was sure.

"He's a fine teacher," Viserys turned to Ashriel, "My Lady." He bowed and kissed her hand, his head angling up to face her for a moment.

"I wanted to ask you about your wedding." I informed Viserys. His head dipped back down before he straightened up, rotating to face me.

"What about?"

"In a fortnight, you'll have a wife. Haylise Baratheon." I glanced an eye to Ashriel, "We've been coming up with names for her."

"You have?" Viserys looked back to Ashriel.

"If you'd wish to find a prettier bride, I'm sure I could talk to Rylon for you."

Viserys began to walk back to Ser Richard, "I will do my duty to our family." He stated, taking his sword from his squire.

"And I'm sure you will hate every second…" I didn't even try to hide my grin; Haylise Baratheon was said to be quite beautiful and wanton. "Though, we all know her reputation. Surely you would not want anyone to cast aspersions on your children's… legitimacy."

Viserys exhaled, looking to Ser Richard, "And here I was, thinking my big sister had outgrown her bullying of me."

"Speaking as a fellow third-born, Your Grace, some things do not change."

"Unless you're a prince, that's irrelevant," I shot Ser Richard a warning look before facing my brother again, "Viserys, I know you're not happy with this." I spoke lowly, careful so no-one else would hear me speak so plainly, "If you want a way out of this marriage, I promise I will help you."

Viserys gulped, furrowing his brow as he always did when he was in pain, just like when that pink scar across his eye was still healing. That scar – not so ugly and jarring as he believed it to be. It was a sign of bravery, a mark of a true warrior. His violet eyes settled behind me on the meek little Ashriel, who was watching us both intently, one hand clasping the other.

"This is what is required of us, Laena." Viserys stated. "What I want isn't what is best."

Viserys was a fool. Brave and noble, yes, but still a fool. He had a sense of honour and duty that matched the damned Starks, but he was just as foolish as the Northerners. Where had their honour got them? Into a war with the Boltons, the once-Red Kings. But, his mind was made up. There was little I could do to convince him to do what he truly wished to do.

"Then Ashriel and I shall take the air." I walked back to Ashriel, linking my arm in hers. "Come, we'll talk about finding you a husband."

 **Hope you guys enjoyed this chapter.**


	4. The War in the North

**Hey guys! Another chapter! A couple of you said you wanted to see what was going on in the North, so here's a bit of a snapshot. Also, I need another character – the** **Lady Stark** **, mother of Markas and Evalyn. I could also do with a** **Lord Bolton** **and some minor Northern lords, who will act as bannermen for the Starks and Boltons.**

 **I could also do with some more low-born people. For instance, some knights or soldiers would be nice. Anyhoo, I'll try to update soon-ish!**

 **Markas Stark – Winterfell**

Spring had nearly ended, ushering in summer. After a long five years in darkness, the sun had started to rise, the ice melted away and the townsfolk began to flurry around the courtyard to trade once more.

I stood on the balcony, watching Tadd Reed and Brack Mormont spar under the careful eye of instructors. They were only fifteen, both of them still squires. But, after four years of killing our brothers, our soldiers were getting younger. I found it hard to dwell on this – Evie was their age. They were children.

"Lords Glover and Greystark have arrived, My Lord." Edam informed me.

"Lord Karstark?" Mormont grunted from beside me.

"He sent word that he is to stay in Karhold, for fear of a Bolton attack."

"Wise man…" Mormont nodded.

"It's understandable… Thank you, Edam."

The soldier bowed his head, then turned about heel and left. I straightened up, pulling on my gloves. "No Karstark… That will make things harder." Mormont began to stroke his dark black beard.

"It's just as well," I nodded, making my way to the Great Hall, "Karstark hates Glover."

"As do we all. The cunt…" Mormont growled beside me.

"Lord Glover has over two thousand men," I informed him, "that will make a difference in this war."

"Aye, he has two thousand men – fresh-faced and smelling of daisies." Mormont's fist clenched, "Four years… waiting four years before picking a side."

"It's in the past," I informed Mormont, "they will win this war for us."

"With respect, my Lord, I've been fighting this war for nearly half a decade… I've been fighting Wildlings and Ironmen longer still. You need men that are loyal to you."

"That's why I have you, my Lord." I smiled, placing a hand on Mormont's shoulder. He grinned at me, the great Old Bear, with warm green eyes and jet black hair. That black hair that I had inherited. He was adorned in large black furs, under a large ebony brigandine.

I opened the door to the Hall, but could not find myself to step inside, as I saw someone in there, standing in front of the Lord's chair.

Evalyn was distinctive. In a crowd of a thousand Northerners, I'd still be able to pick her out. The Pale Wolf, some had called her, and it was little wonder why; her skin was faded and washed out, her eyes grey and iced as mine, and her hair, ashen and straight, dropping to the back of her waist. She was clad in black, as she had been for the last month, since father had been struck down in the Battle of Sheepshead Hills.

I held out a hand, keeping Mormont at bay. After a brief look in my eyes, Mormont nodded, and left, shutting the door behind him. The sudden noise made Evalyn look across to me, quickly rubbing her eyes. I saw now, that a great number of tomes had been set upon the table behind her.

"Markas," she sniffled, "I couldn't concentrate in my room…"

"It's quite alright," I assured her, walking in, "take as long as you need."

Evalyn smiled, bowing her head in thanks. She then looked to her right, past mother's chair, to where I would now sit.

"It doesn't feel like he's gone, does it?"

"No," I shook my head, swallowing the lump in my throat, "it doesn't seem… it doesn't work."

Evie paused for a moment. "Do you remember the feasts we used to have in here?"

"How mother would insist on making sure all my food was cut up?" I grinned.

"I used to beg her to let me sit with Elyse Forrester and the other girls." Evie chuckled with another sniff.

"Finn would sit over there," I pointed at the back, "and get drunk on ale and call Ser Gabrin a milksop."

"And then mother would get so riled…" Evie laughed.

I walked around the table, looking at the Lord's seat. As I rested my hand on the back of the chair, I could still picture father sitting there, clear as day; His long dark curls, tied back behind his head. The dark leathers, the great, heavy Ice in its sheath, slung across the back. Father would sit there, drinking ale, and watching us all with a smile warm enough to keep us all going through the darkest winters.

But, as I sat down in the chair, I noticed my eyes rested on one place – the table where the Master-at-Arms would sit with the Captain of the guards. The table that Finn used to sit at. I could still see him, with his dark hair like myself, albeit lacking in curls. Whereas I still bore the bruises from my brawls, Finn never seemed to get them. No, Finn was a warrior, through and through. I still had the scar to prove it, a jagged crescent mark from where Finn had struck me with a wooden sword when we were no older than six. Mother never let us train together again.

"She'd have father send him to bed without supper." I finished the memory.

"I can't remember him well." Evie said finally, "Can you?"

"Mostly when he sparred," I informed her. "Gods, I can't remember a time where I didn't want to wield a sword like him. Maybe then I…"

I had to catch myself. Matters like those… Evalyn was too young to know about them. About how deadly and evil the Ironborn could be. More to the point, the past had to stay in the past. There was the war with the Boltons that I had to focus on.

"Then you…?" Evie asked.

"Oh… maybe I could have the Boltons fight me in the Old Way."

"I wouldn't trust them…" Evie hissed, closing one of her volumes, "Theadosia Bolton… Raff Bolton… they all deserve to day."

"Thea didn't murder father, Evalyn." I informed her. "Neither did Raff."

"They're Boltons. They deserve to die." Evie stated.

"And I'm sure they think the same about us."

"So you won't fight them?"

"I didn't say that." I ran a hand through my curls. "Mother says they're cold, demented people."

"Their sigil is the flayed man." Evie stated.

"Just because a man's a Bolton, it doesn't mean they're evil." I tried to reason. "Finn is proof enough of that."

"But Finn isn't a Bolton, he's a Snow."

"He's as much Bolton as Raff or Theadosia." There was a pause as I saw Evie's eyes linger on Finn's old seat at the far table, before they drifted back to her tomes. "You've inherited father's loud silence."

"When can he come back?"

I sighed, standing up and walking around the table to face her. "You know he can't…"

"Father sent him away. You're Lord of Winterfell now, you can bring him back-"

"That's not how it works… father had his reasons."

"But he can help us fight the Boltons! You said it yourself, he's the best with a sword ever-"

"I didn't say that."

"-And the Targaryens don't care! Father banished him, so-"

"Evie, even if that were the case, no-one knows where he is."

"That isn't true!" Evie reached under one of her books ( _Maester Folynd's Collection of Poultices and Poisons_ ), and pulled out a falttened scroll, with our family's seal stamped upon it, unbroken. "Tom from the market said he can deliver this to the next Braavosi trader that comes to the Stony shore!"

"Evie, when has Finn ever replied to your letters?" Evie frowned, her lip quivering gently. "I'm sorry… Evie, I didn't mean to be cruel." I sighed. Father always told me a wise man listens, whereas a bold man talks. "Braavosi?"

Evie nodded eagerly, "You see, he said that he came across a Westerosi Bravo who carried a wolf's head dagger."

"Finn's dagger." I nodded. Finn had always been attatched to his knife, with a roaring ironwood wolf sculpted into the pommel. But there were countless reasons as to how someone possessed this dagger. Finn could have sold it, soured from his exile. Or Finn may have lost it in a game of dice. Perhaps he died and it was taken from him – perhaps someone else just had a wolf's head dagger.

"And- and, they said he's skilled with a sword. They said he's killed a thousand men!"

"I doubt Finn's killed a thousand-" I caught myself again. "What do you say in your letter?"

"I tell Finn to come home. I tell him about the songs that I've learnt, the poems I want, I ask him where he is, and for stories."

I wished I still had that hope. And it pained me to do this, but it was my duty as Lord of Winterfell. I had to do what was best for her, and best for the house.

"Evie… I need more men for this war," I tried to explain, "I can't win unless I find more allies."

"Who?" She asked. "Everyone in the North has picked a side."

"You're right…" I swallowed again, "Every house in the _North_ has." She cocked her head to the side eyes trying to pick apart my meaning. "Evie… I've made a match for you."

"A match?"

"A Baratheon. You'll be the Lady of Storm's End, of the Stormlands-"

"You can't send me away!" She stood up, shaking her head.

"-you'll depart Winterfell within the week-"

"Markas, you can't do this, please don't do this!" I could see her red, stinging eyes begin to water once more.

"I've given my word."

"If- if you need help, ask the King! Or- or, the Queen!"

"I cannot."

"Yes you can!"

"No, I can't!" I leant on the table, "I am the Warden of the North. I cannot- I will not ask a Southner for help! How am I meant to rule the North if I cannot fight for the North?"

"But they're rebelling!"

"Aye, and there'll be more rebellions if I ask for help!" I entangled my fingers in my ringlets, sighing as I tried to find a way to explain this to her. To make her understand. "Our ancestors defeated the Red Kings before, without the help of other kingdoms. I will not go to King's Landing and beg for help."

Evie stared at her feet, arms by her side as she began to sniff and sob quietly. Eventually, her pale hands were brought up to cover her eyes, her weeping becoming louder. I couldn't even bear looking at her, standing there with her gentle mewling. But she was a woman now. This was her destiny. And a Baratheon was a good match for her.

"I know it's not fair," I muttered, "but it's what's best for everyone. It's best for you, it's best for the house…"

"That doesn't mean it's right." Evie sniffed. She looked up at me, eyes burning red. "You sound like father." Before I could try to decipher whether she meant this as a compliment or not, she picked up her copious volumes and stormed out of the room, struggling to keep them all in her arms.

I watched the doors open and Mormont walk past Evie.

"She knows." I clarified.

"Ah… never an easy chat…" Mormont nodded, "Gods willing, it won't be the last."

"Gods willing, this war will end before she says her vows."

"She'll be safer in the south."

"Aye… but she won't be home."

 **So, please let me know your thoughts! I started writing this at 1am, and it's now 3:30am… Anyhoo, those nice long, detailed reviews are the best! I love getting them and hearing what you like and want to see more of!**


	5. The Deer and the Lioness

**Hey guys! Yet another update. This one took me a bit of time to write, but I'm introducing two new characters. I'm getting a tad tired of seeing all these characters that are 21. Come on, I don't want to focus on just one generation. So far I have only received two or three characters that aren't between 18-21.**

 **I'd love to receive a Lady Stark, and I still need Rylon Baratheon's son, Evie's betrothed. I also need a Lord Bolton, and some of Lady Theadosia Bolton's handmaidens (Note: I feel like you'll love the idea I have for her handmaidens. I mean, you'll hate it, but you'll love to hate it).**

 **Haylise Baratheon – King's Landing**

King's Landing. A Nest of Vipers. It is said that a thousand rats live in the sewers. From what I've heard in father's letters, they have ascended from the sewers and dwell around the Red Keep. I could see it in the distance, a striking scarlet building that loomed across the city of a million people.

I began to wrinkle my nose. The smells of dung and rotting meat wafted up from one of the alleys. I raised my kercher to my nose, breathing in the scents of lavender instead.

"Apologies, M'lady," the carriage driver called to me from outside, "took a wrong turn. We'll be back on the Street of Seeds in a moment!"

I pulled back one of the lace curtains, examining what was outside. A couple of roads over, I could see small rickety houses, stacked and squeezed next to each other, with boys in rags and hoods sprinting around, lingering on rooftops, surveying the carriages and people like eagles.

"It seems the rats have made their way out of the sewers…" My handmaiden, Lyra, muttered from across me. She was the picture of a Lannister; golden curls plaited back behind her ears, shining virescent eyes. She was my ideal handmaiden, with the low cut of her bodice, and her eager attentiveness to my story. Most maidens blushed or began to gossip when I spoke about the man who took my maidenhead, but Lyra seemed hardly fazed. The large round eyes closed as she asked me to describe him. He had been tall, with short dark hair. His eyes, darker still. He was like every knight from the songs, sharp features and a knowing smile. I described everything; the smell of the tavern we stayed in, the heavy weight of his sword casting a looming shadow as it hung off the back of the chair. The warm fire that crackled. And the harsh storm that raged in the morning. Yet, I still could not bring myself to speak his name. Gods, I didn't even know if it was his real name. Yet the way he carried himself and spoke articulated a noble heritage.

Who else but a Lord would use a Lady like that?

"Will I stay here? Once I marry Viserys?"

Lyra glanced back to me, "I suppose, for a while. Though, Viserys is the second-born. His place is on Dragonstone."

"Tell me about him again." I leant forwards, grabbing her hand, and therefore her attention. Lyra let out a small laugh.

"You know so little about the man. Hasn't your father told you anything about him?"

"Father hasn't visited since I was thirteen…" I sighed. Seven years ago. I wondered how he had changed. And how he would react to my own change. My hair was longer, my girl's body had morphed into a woman's, and I had traded my modest and reserved gowns for a look more… in keeping with my reputation.

"You must know something."

"Only what you told me. He's some years younger than I, a picture of Aegon in his younger years, loved by his men. His skill with a sword is unmatched in the South."

"I never said it was unmatched," Lyra snickered, "He's often found with the Kingsguard. He earned a scar fighting an Ironborn raiding party. That long silver hair, piercing violet eyes."

"A true Targaryen." I nodded, unable to hide my smile.

"Not all Targaryens look like that," Lyra pointed out. "Aelyx the Valiant was brown of hair."

"Aelyx the Valiant was also half-Tyrell."

"But he was still a Targaryen." Lyra reminded me. "Wielding Blackfyre in one hand, Dark Sister in the other. He cast the Ironborn raiders out of the Westerlands!"

It was so inspiring to watch Lyra's eyes swell with excitement at the tales of great warriors. Of course, Rylon had voiced his concerns about her being a bad influence on me; in his eyes, a woman should be courteous, gentle and elegant. Imagine his surprise, when the infamous Lady Lyra arrived in Storm's End to serve as my handmaiden. The stories of Lannister feasts, featuring Lyra in breeches and a shirt, adorning a doublet like a man. She'd shown me the faded white scars, where she had been beaten for her antics. I still asked her every week if she would show me what she could do with a sword. I knew she couldn't wield one like a man, but I'd seen her eyes linger on the knights in the keep, studying every swing of a blade, every thrust and parry. It wasn't just a look of admiration, she was committing these movements to memory.

"Damn this fucking dress…" Lyra hissed, pulling at the seam of her scarlet gown.

"You'll tear it."

"Good!" She replied, trying to pull it again, to no avail. She sighed, slumping back into the seat. "Gods, how much farther…"

The carriage arrived to a halt, and the heavy footsteps and creaking around us told me that we had reached our destination. The carriage door opened, letting in the dazzling sunlight. I sat there, patiently awaiting for a hand to be offered for me. Lyra, however, immediately jumped out, still tugging at her dress slightly. I grinned, and accepted the gloved hand offered by a knightly man, stepping out.

The Red Keep was marvellous. Truly, a thing you would never fully comprehend until you stood before it. Long, ruby towers that reached towards the skies, a fortress of crimson that looked to have been built by giants.

"Lady Haylise," I looked to see a young man in front of me – clearly a Targaryen. His short silver hair that sat atop his pale, knifelike face. Those large violet eyes that pierced out of his hard face. He was attractive, face free of a beard and his black and crimson robes festooned with garnets and rubies. "I do hope we find you well today." He dipped his head into a bow, one hand resting casually on the dagger on his belt.

"You're too kind, Your Grace," I tried to hide my blushing cheeks. Well, there was no grisly scar on his face, no bold look about him. He seemed quite courteous and lordly, as if he was a decade older than his face said.

"And the Lady Lannister," He bowed once more, "The Lord Hand awaits for us in the Throne Room. If I may?" He offered his arm, which I took in an instant. We began walking up the steps, escorted by two of his famous Kingsguard, clad in silver armour, speckled with glimmering sunlight on the three-headed dragon emblazoned on their chests.

"Forgive me, Your Grace, but the stories do not do you justice."

"No?" He raised an eyebrow.

"What I mean to say is, that your scar has healed remarkably."

"Scar?"

"From your encounter with the Ironborn?" He chuckled lightly in response. "I did not mean any offense, Your Grace..."

"And you have given none. I am afraid you have mistaken me: I am Aeron Targaryen. Viserys' brother."

I managed to cover my embarrassment, or so I thought. It seemed I was destined to repeat the past. I was drawn to trueborns. Not to say I felt anything deep or possessed any deep dreams of swaddling his children. I suppose it was just excitement muddied with my own assumptions.

The Prince Aeron Targaryen. A legitimized bastard. I'd only come across two bastards in my life, and the first was the one who I gave my maidenhead to. My father had told me, after the incident, that bastards were born of lust and envy, and their blood would tell. All bastards were traitors, in one form or another.

"Forgive me, Your Grace-" I began to apologize once more.

"That would be unnecessary," he assured me. "Come. My brother has been pestering the Lord Hand with questions of you."

"He has?" My stomach began to flutter. I knew what many called me. Haylise the Ruined, The Lady of Whores, Haylise the Harlot.

"Of course," We had entered the keep now, "as I am sure you have inquired as to his person."

"It is only natural, is it not?" Lyra questioned, stopping Aeron in his tracks. "For a woman to know what sort of man she is to spend the rest of her life with."

"The rest of her life?" Aeron raised an eyebrow. "If a woman spent her life laying with one man, widows would not exist."

"And many others would not be born." She muttered quietly. I heard this clearly, though, and that meant so did Aeron.

"Lyra!" I called. How dare she speak out like that – on the day I was to be presented to the throne. I saw Aeron's jaw clench for a moment, his arm tense. "Forgive us, we've had no other company but the soldiers on our journey from Storm's End…"

"It is true, I was a bastard." Aeron stated, "A stone. But, now I am a Targaryen. By royal decree."

Lyra's eyes flickered over to me. I knew she had behaved rashly, giving little thought to where her tongue moved. "My apologies, Your Grace," she bowed her head, "I fear that I find the absence of storm and rain disagreeable after so long in Storm's End."

And Aeron did what I did not expect him to. He laughed. A forced laugh, one I recognized. One where he had to laugh at himself, because everyone else would.

"This is a joyous day. I am gaining a sister," He smiled at me, "Come. Let us greet a Lady with her Lord."

 **Rylon Baratheon – The Red Keep, King's Landing**

All the Great Lords and Ladies of Westeros had journeyed down to King's Landing to witness the wedding of Viserys Targaryen and my daughter, Haylise. Lord Oroville Tyrell had even hobbled down from Highgarden on his cane, accompanied by his beauty of a rose, Delyth. I still felt anxious – on edge. It had taken careful years of cultivating a relationship with Rhaegon to secure the match. True, it had been on Rhaegon's lips for years, but when Vysella came to me, asking when the ceremony would take place, she eagerly pushed for it to be as soon as possible.

Draegor was promised to his sister, Laena, as per Rhaegon's instruction, to be married on her eighteenth nameday. Sadly, with Draegor's blinding and Laena's burning… well, I saw no reason to impose marriage upon them until it was absolutely necessary for them to be provided with an heir.

Viserys, on the other hand, was stronger than his siblings. The true Dragon. They say that when a Targaryen is born, the Gods flip a coin – madness on one side, and greatness on the other. Though I had been yet to come across a truly mad Targaryen, there was no truly great Targaryen besides Viserys. He was adored by the townsfolk, wise beyond his years, and had a gentle heart. I feared that this heart would only harden in years to come. But, my daughter Haylise was of the same sort. I suppose, one's heart can only be tender and light when it is unburdened with the weight of responsibility.

I sat in the Iron Throne, representing Rhaegon. To my right, sat Vysella. She was no great beauty, though there was a kindness in her that reflected in her face. Moreover, her long silver hair had been mounted up on her head, set firmly with intracite braids and plaits. I passed a look over to Laena, who sat left of Vysella. Her eyes kept flicking over to her mother's hair. Laena's own hair covered up the burn by her ear, though the scarring on her neck was still evident, despite the high collar she wore.

To my right, sat Draegor Targaryen, his frosted eyes downcast once more. He sat patiently in his own chair, hands resting gently on the arms as his head would turn in the direction of the odd comment. And, further right of Draegor, sat Viserys. He was wrapped in red and black, a short surcoat emblazoned with the three-headed dragon in scarlet.

Finally, the doors opened, and in walked my daughter. My beautiful little deer. Haylise. She had indeed grown since I had seen her last – my duties in King's Landing afforded me no time to travel home to the Stormlands. Her thick hair, shimmering like midnight, beneath a web of golden chain, as thin as strands of silk. She moved up a hand, pushing the hair out of her face and tucking it behind her ear. Her eyes were a mirror of my own, twin icebergs. Though, she looked more like her mother, with those feline eyes that began to examine the room. Where she differed from every Baratheon, however, was in what she wore. I felt the eyes of all the young men in the room, roving over the cut of her dress, exposing her hips. A gold chain, entwined with amber and ebony gems plunged down towards her navel with the neckline of her gown, delicately clinging by her shoulders. I wanted to tear the white cloak off Ser Mikal Drake and drape it around her shoulders.

"My Lord Hand," Prince Aeron bowed, "allow me to introduce the Lady Haylise of House Baratheon."

"Dear Haylise," I stood up and bowing as I watch my daughter curtsy, "as Hand of the King, I may introduce you to your betrothed, Viserys of House Targaryen."

Viserys arose his chair, taking a few tentative steps towards her, indigo eyes wide as shields. He kept one hand on the golden hilt of Dark Sister, that slender blade at his side. As he approached, Haylise kept her eyes on the floor, and hands clasped behind her back, her chest peaking out. I smiled to myself – she would do well her time in King's Landing. A true player of the great game.

"My lady," Viserys stretched out a hand for her, which Haylise took, "your beauty is a thing a man can only but dream of." I looked over to Vysella, who had been mouthing the words along with him.

"My Dragon," Haylise's eyes gently cast up to his face, "I do hope to offer you nothing but happiness and children."

My little deer, all grown up. It was a wise decision to not call Viserys 'My Lord' or 'Your Grace', as per tradition. The calling of him as her Dragon caught him off-guard. I turned to Vysella, who couldn't help but smile at this. It must have reminded her of the formal engagement between her and Rhaegon. The room erupted into an applause, though I could make out evident distaste on the faces of the Ladies around the room, clearly aimed at my daughter. Though, no-one would speak out against the future Lady of Dragonstone.

 **Please leave a review, and don't forget to send in characters!**


	6. The Thornlord

**Hey guys! I just wanted to clear something up – the characters I focus on are not the only ones in their respective Houses. For instance Markas Stark does have cousins, as does Oroville, Ashriel and Delyth Tyrell, Rylon Baratheon has brothers and so on. So, if any characters do meet their demise, it does not necessarily mean the extinction of their house, since I want this story to be able to fit into the rich history and lore of** _ **Game of Thrones**_ **/** _ **Ice and Fire**_ **.**

 **Though this story is rooted in the TV Show, I do draw a lot of the history and customs from** _ **Ice and Fire**_ **. I simply chose the TV show as I know that a lot better than I know** _ **Ice and Fire**_ **.**

 **I still need:**

 **Lord Bolton (preferably in his fifties)**

 **Rylon Baratheon's son (preferably in his mid teens)**

 **Lannisters (Including the Lord and Lady of the House)**

 **Lady Theadosia 'Thea' Bolton's handmaidens. (1/3 accepted). They can be a variety of ages, and don't need to be villainous. In fact, I'd prefer some innocent, good-hearted ones.**

 **Bannermen for the Starks – I'd like some real 'Northern' bannermen. Stubborn, blunt, crass etc.**

 **Stark Banner Houses:**

 **House Mormont**

 **House Glover**

 **House Karstark**

 **House Greystark**

 **House Reed**

 **Bolton Banner Houses:**

 **House Umber**

 **House Hornwood**

 **House Flint**

 **House Locke**

 **House Manderly**

 **I'll also accept some characters from across the narrow sea. Sellswords, cutpurses, courtesans and the like.**

 **Ashriel Tyrell – The Red Keep, King's Landing**

King's Landing looked so picturesque from up here. Up in the Red Keep, built by Maegor the Cruel on Aegon's High Hill. I began to imagine if this is how Bran the Builder felt upon erecting the Wall, and looking out amongst Westeros.

Down, past all the winding alleyways and huge ravines of stone, stood the Great Sept of Baelor, built by Baelor the Blessed. Gods, it rivalled the Red Keep in masonry. Truly, it was a structure worthy of the Gods it worshipped.

The Hook could be seen, arcing through the city and leading to the mudgate, and from there, the Kingsroad to anywhere in Westeros. Storm's End, Highgarden… anywhere. Looking at the gate, I couldn't help but imagine who was in those gilded elegant carriages, escorted by nobles. Oh, noble Lords and gentle Ladies, I was sure, but I didn't who specifically. Was it an old, disgruntled man, come to smile as Haylise the Ruined married Viserys the Bold? Would he present his daughter, and marry her off to a half-deaf decrepit man?

I closed my eyes, trying to just take in the sounds. The bells ringing from Baelor's Sept, the bustle of crowds, neighing of horses, the wind blowing against my bare skin, where my robe did not cover…

"Come back to bed," I heard the lethargic, yet musical chime call from bed. Looking around, I saw him. Tangled mess of silver hair, heavy, tired violet eyes. His soft, flushed cheeks. Beads of sweat still sat on his forehead from our activities. My Dragon.

"I couldn't sleep…" I stated, walking back to him.

"Well," He pushed himself up, "who said beds were just for sleeping?" He leant in and began kissing my waist, hands gently slipping around me and under my gown. But, as soft as his hands felt against my skin, and as warm as his breath was, I could not shift my mind.

"Do you think she's pretty?"

"Who?" He asked between kisses.

"You know who." He paused, sighing as he halted kissing me, and leant backwards, looking up at me.

"Haylise?" Viserys paused. "Of course not."

"You don't think she's pretty?"

"Not compared to you."

"I'm not asking compared to me…" I looked out of the window. I knew he was just answering whatever he thought would please me. After all our time together, I'd hoped he would have known I wanted something more honest-

"Okay, yes." He kept his arms around my waist, "She's quite beautiful."

"Oh, beautiful, is she? Beautiful?"

"Objectively," he stood up, arms still around me.

"In other words, to many?"

"I…" he let out a nervous chuckle, "yes, to many, I'm sure she's very beautiful."

"If you like girls like that…" I huffed, turning back to the window, and gliding out of Viserys' arms.

"You're jealous!" He called with a smile, walking after me.

"We should call you Viserys the Bright…"

"Look," Viserys spun me around, "I didn't ask to marry her. You know I have a duty to do so." His fingers interlaced with mine, "When I was a boy, Rylon told me that being a Prince meant that duty comes before everything. Even my own wants."

"Because Rylon is so wise…" I shrugged, "Wedding _Haylise_ …"

"And, what's so wrong with Haylise?" Viserys chuckled.

"Oh, nothing," I crossed my arms, "nothing's wrong with Haylise the Ruined…"

"I'm hardly a maid myself."

"That's different," I spun around, "you know it is."

"She's to be my wife," Viserys slipped the robe off my shoulders, "I didn't choose it, she didn't and you didn't. It's an awful position to be in… but let's spend our last moments not thinking about her."

Viserys leant in and began to kiss my neck, the short prickle of stubble on his chin scratching against my throat. I tousled his hair with my fingers, grabbing fistfuls of it and pulling him as close to me as could be done. Like it was the last time I would ever do so.

 **Oroville Tyrell – The Royal Gardens, King's Landing**

"My Lord, the Hippocras is served. Should you want cheese or-"

"I want your stench out of this damned garden." I replied, turning away from the sea and walking back to the table where Ashriel sat with my youngest, Delyth, sat. The Flower of Highgarden. She was certainly more eligible for marriage than her sister. Ashriel was too… wild. Those ugly golden rings that covered her ears – what man would want a wife like that? She looked like a Lyseni- well, a woman that she is not.

Delyth, on the other hand, was a proper Lady. Despite being a year younger, she was taller than her sister, and more delicate. Her face was carved like a heart, similar to her sister, except there were no blemishes, her skin glowed from the Highgarden sun, and her hair was a cool ash-brown, worn in the same fashion as Ashriel. They wore the same eyes and smile, but Ashriel wore her clothes modestly and with grace. Delyth, on the other hand, had attended her mother's tutelage. She was the prized Flower of Highgarden, and was the key to the Tyrells' future.

I hobbled over to the table, resting my cane against the chair as I sat. "This blasted leg…" It had been at the tourney of Oldtown, some twenty years ago, when I was a younger man. Damned mare was in heat, and collapsed onto my leg. Leaving me to walk around with this golden cane and a fucking rose for a hilt. The curse of being a Tyrell… everyone, everywhere calls you a bloody rose…

"Can we have some honeycomb, father?" Delyth asked.

"Not yet, we have matters to discuss."

"But I want it now."

"And I'm telling you to wait." I reached across holding my old, scarred thumb on her chin. "Too many honeycombs means fewer handsome husbands." Ashriel let out a snigger from the other side of the table. She may not have respected me, but she was a sharp little thing. Truly the daughter of the Knight of Thorns. After the death of my father, I was no longer a knight… I suppose I was now the Thornlord. "I have entered discussion with Lord Rylon."

"Lord Rylon?" Delyth's eyes widened in excitement.

"I had set about securing a match. For you, Delyth." I saw Delyth's lips break into a wide, beaming smile, and Ashriel breathe a sigh of relief. "You will stay here, in King's Landing for some time after the wedding, where you will serve as handmaiden to Princess Laena, with your sister." I saw Ashriel roll her eyes.

"Who is my betrothed?" Delyth giggled. "Is he a black-haired Baratheon? A golden-haired Lannister? An Arryn?"

"A Targaryen." I couldn't hide my smile, a I watched Delyth squeal.

"Tell me! Who is it? Who is it?"

"Really?" Ashriel raised an eyebrow. She had already guessed who it was. I had to say, she was as sharp as her sister was beautiful. "Him?"

"And what is wrong with that match?"

"Ask Haylise the Ruined, she might give you some insight…" Ashriel took a sip of wine.

"What are you talking about?" Delyth still giggled.

"She's not going to like it…" Ashriel murmured into her cup of wine.

"What aren't I going to like?" Delyth asked, all manner of sweetness evaporated. I sighed, leaning back into my chair.

"You are to marry Prince Aeron Targaryen."

Delyth's face was one full of confusion. I'd heard the whispers, calling her the 'Foolish Flower' of Highgarden, and claiming she was dim-witted. In my opinion, it didn't matter if she was or wasn't. She was beautiful, and fit to marry a prince. I'd challenge any man to say different.

"Aeron Targaryen?" Delyth asked, "The natural-born?"

"He is trueborn now, by royal decree," I informed Delyth, "say otherwise, and you contradict the king." I turned to Ashriel, "Now, Ashriel, you can be of some assistance with this, I hope?"

"Me? Help?" Ashriel looked from Delyth to myself.

"You've been in King's Landing for quite some time. What can you tell us about him?"

"Aeron? Well, he's courteous… well-read. Though, he's not widely received."

"Widely received? How so?"

"Queen Vysella holds distaste for the boy. The Princess Laena, also."

"The future queen," Delyth huffed, "Draegor will rule King's Landing, Viserys will rule Dragonstone… what will Aeron rule?"

"Aeron will sit on the Small Council," I informed her, "He will advise his brother, the King, in everything. I'd wager he's to be chosen as Hand of the King under his brother's reign."

Delyth's face shifted into one of glee. "So… I'd still be a princess."

I laughed, watching the servant arrive with more wine. "Yes, you will be a princess." I looked to the servant, "Where's the damned honeycomb? I told you to bring honeycomb!"  
"M-my Lord?" The servant staggered backwards.

"Don't snivel, get the honeycomb!" I swung my cane around his backside, hiding him. "And bring us some more damned wine!" I called after him, over Delyth's giggles. I stood up, reaching for my cane, "Damned fool…"

"You didn't ask him for more honeycomb, father." Ashriel stated.

"I didn't?"

"No, you said Delyth wasn't to have much just yet."

"I could've sworn I did…" I looked after the boy that scrambled away, "One too many knocks in the tourneys, I suppose." I chuckled, reaching for my cane. "I'll take the air for a moment. Leave you two to remember fonder times. Ashriel, tell your sister all you know of Aeron Targaryen. Tell one of your attendants to fetch me when that blasted fool returns."


	7. Rat Catcher

**Hey guys! So, the reason why I take time between updates is because I'm waiting for reviews. And, it's kind of disheartening to see 4 when I get something like 200 views on the chapter… So, if you guys can please just leave a review saying what you want to see, it'll mean a lot to me.**

 **So this chapter is kind of… different.**

 **Rickard of Crofters – The Wolfswood**

Spring had sprung. And the Wolfswood knew this: Sunlight dazzled through the leaves and speckle the dirt in front of us. We were heading north, away from Winterfell and towards Last Hearth. Moving under cover of night, lest the Umbers find us.

Less than an hour ago, we had arrived at the edge of Long Lake, and set up camp here. Stretching out across the water, I could see the Lonely Hills, mountainous and monsterous. But thank the Gods that they were there. Because they were the only thing separating us from the Boltons.

"Oi, Rat," Ludd called over to me, "fucking stop gawking."

"What?"

"They can't see us in the woods. But they can see you fucking pissing in Long Lake."

"I weren't pissing-"

"Come on you feckless sod," Ben laughed, picking up his bow, "let's see if we can't catch a rabbit or two." Varn picked up my own bow and tossed it towards me. I grabbed my quiver from beside the campfire and jogged to catch up with Varn. "You've never met Ludd before, have you?"

"No."

"He's an old coot," Varn grinned, "he'll give you a clout 'round one ear if you go near the lake, and a clip 'round the other if you stray too far away."

Varn had been the one I'd met at Winterfell, little more than a decade ago. He taught me how to draw a bow, read and write a little for the reports, and how to address a Lord. I grazed a finger over the stub on my hand, where my little finger had been separated.

"Still miss it?" Varn asked.

"I don't think about it enough." I shrugged, nocking an arrow.

"You never skipped training again…"

"Aye… that's true."

"You know… if Bennard Stark had cut off my finger, I doubt I'd repay him with undying loyalty." Varn chuckled.

"Aye, and I'm the Rat?"

"Aye – have you seen your nose?"

He pointed towards it until I slapped his hand away. "Get to fuck…"

"Fucking… we should use you as bait! Catch a nice little cat."

"First pussy you'll have had in years…"

"Ey, Rickard the Rat finally thinks up a retort!" Varn belly-laughed. "Fuck… first thing I'm doing back in Wintertown is going to that brothel-"

"Shut up, you'll scare every animal in this damned wood."

"-and fucking the tits off of the first, second and third whore I see."

"What if they're ugly?"

"What?"

"What if the first three you see are ugly?"

"It's been long enough, little man," Varn grinned, "I'm even starting to find you pretty." He puckered his lips at me.

"Fuck off…" I shoved him again. "Gods, remind me to pray for the whores."

"Oi," Varn whispered to me. I turned around to see him nocking an arrow and crouching as he gently crept behind a tree, slowly drawing back the bowstring… "Fucking… Yes!" He picked up his arrow, which was through the neck of a large hare.

"That's about half a meal for you." I called over to him.

"Then find your own!" he laughed.

"Aye," I called as he returned to me, pulling the arrow out of the hare, which he placed in the hunting satchel, "I'll find something. Maybe a great boar?"

"You can tangle with one if it please you, but I'm saving my arrows for the bloody Umbers."

"The Umbers? Fucking. Umbers?"

"You've seen them fight-"

"Aye, and I'll take my chances with the boar." I shook my head, walking further into the forest, "Fucking Umbers…" I muttered to myself.

When we arrived back at camp, we carried four hares and a small rabbit. A decent hunting trip for Varn and I. We skinned them, skewered them and roasted them on the crackling fire, passing around our rations of ale.

"Last good meal we'll have for a while," Ludd informed us.

"I don't know about that," Varn stroked his chin, "The Manderly's, Locke's and Flint's have already travelled to the Dreadfort… The Umbers will follow soon enough. Then it's a stroll back to Winterfell."

"Aye. Where we'll be sent off to fight the bastards."

"Just give me a bow." Varn retorted, "Show me a Bolton, and I'll show you a dead man."

"You're quite the sorcerer…" I rolled my eyes, drinking the ale.

"They killed Ben Stark."

"Aye, and Ben Stark killed Maryana Bolton." Ludd groaned.

"She killed herself. Hung from the chambers in the tower, rather than return to the Dreadfort." Varn argued.

"Fuck off…" Ludd shook his head, "no Bolton lass hung herself."

"Aye, she did! My brother saw the body himself."

"Oh, aye? He saw her hang herself?"

"Well… no, but-"

"Then all we know is that she died, don't we? Fucking 'hung herself'… maybe she was hung, but it would be Ben Stark that did it."

"Hanged." I interjected.

"What?"

"Clothes are hung, people are hanged." I clarified.

"Oh, forgive me, I didn't realise we had fucking nobility with us!" Ludd pulled into a deep, elaborate bow.

"Ben Stark wouldn't have done that." I said finally.

"Oh? And how would you know?"

"I met him," I raised my left hand, "he took a finger when I missed training."

"So?"

"So, most Lords would've had me lashed. He took my finger and was done with it. Even had his Maester bandage it for me. What's more is that he did it himself."

"It doesn't even matter…" Ludd took a skewer of hare, "Ben Stark fucked the Bolton Bitch, whelped out a bastard, and then a war starts."

"Seventeen years later." I point out.

"What else would it be?" Varn agreed with Ludd, "Ever since that day, every House started to side with either the Starks or the Boltons."

"The Boltons used to be Kings, my village always said," I spoke, "Maybe they want to be Kings again?"

"Aye, they were the Red Kings… the Starks the Kings of Winter. The Dustins were the Barrowkings, and the Glovers were the Kings of this very wood… Yet it's only Boltons who are sore about this."

"Maybe," Ludd took a bite of hare, "the Boltons are just cunts."

As Varn leant forwards to grab a skewer of hare, it dropped to the ground. I stopped laughing and drinking, and saw Varn frozen in place, looking down at an arrow protruding from his neck. Blood trickled down from his neck, as his eyes turned towards me, swollen with confusion.

Ludd jumped up, gabbing his bow and ducking behind a tree. I did the same with the tree beside him, gripping my own bow and nocking an arrow.

"You see where it came from?"

The arrow had pierced Varn's throat, he was facing East, "East. Definitely."

"You see anything?"

"No…" I peered around the tree to look, "There's nothing there."

"Okay…" Ludd kept looking back to the campfire.

"Should we head for Winterfell?"

"We have a mission. I won't return to Winterfell with my tail between my legs."

"As long as my head is intact, I don't care for my tail."

Ludd sighed, "Well, wherever we go, we can't stay here."

Ludd peeked out beside the tree again, looking intently towards the other trees in the distance. He lifted the bow up to his face, drawing back carefully. The woods were completely silent, except for the creaking of his bow.

"Do you see him?" I asked.

"Aye… I see him…" Ludd narrowed his eyes. "I want you to run to the tree by Varn."

"What?"

"He'll lean out to shoot… And I'll get him."

"You're crazy."

"Just experienced. On three. One… two…"

I leapt out from behind the tree, sprinting as quickly as I could. Ducking randomly, rolling across the dirt until I slapped my back against the tree, breathing hard. But, as I looked at the path I'd taken, I found no arrows left in my wake. In fact, I hadn't heard anything.

"Ludd, did you get him?" I whispered, to no response. "Ludd?"

I peered out from behind the tree, looking at where our enemy was said to have been. I couldn't see anything. I kept low, and began to move back to Ludd, nocking an arrow, and keeping my eyes on the trees in the distance. I would stop ever couple of steps, watching for the slightest movement.

"Ludd, what the fuck are you-" I looked up and saw an arrow through his eyeball, pinning him to the tree he'd hidden behind. I felt a pit in my stomach. They were behind us. I'd been so focused on what was in front of us, I hadn't paid attention to what was behind. I heard the twigs snap and leaves crunch. They were close. I began to slip my hands past the grey fletching of my arrow, and when my fingers touched the bowstring, I spun around, drawing fully at the figure.

But there wasn't one figure. There were four.

Two arrows landed in my gut, twisting through my skin. I let out a groan of pain, looking down at the wood twinging my organs.

"Fucking… Umbers…" I gasped.

And they laughed. A high-pitched giggle, as one of them stepped forwards and pulled down their hood. A woman stood there. The long waves of hair tied back were darker than the raven's feathers in the fletching of her arrows. Her cheekbones cut out against the strands like the corners of a diamond. Her skin was paler than snow, and harder than ice. A small, straight nose, full pink lips that looked as if they had been painted with blood.

"Do I really look like an Umber to you?" She opened her cloak, revealing her body. Tits like a whore, wide hips and a narrow little waist. She wore a dark dress, and under her leather bracers and pauldrons, I could see the pink undershirt. Her own shirt had been unlaced at the top, revealing her pale collarbones and slender build… "What's your name?"

"Brandon the Builder," I spat the blood on the floor. The woman smiled slightly and straightened up more.

"Well, you're a Stark man." She pulled her lips up into a smile, parting to reveal the gloss of her pearly teeth. For some reason, I came to think of them more as fangs. "We are going to have so much fun with you…" She giggled once more, holding out a hand. One of her companions placed a small, thin knife into her hand. And then I noticed the hilt – the engraving of a Flayed Man.

"Fucking Boltons…" I gasped, trying to pull my body backwards.

The Bolton girl began to hush, as her large, midnight blue eyes grew even wider with hunger, too big for her own head. "Silence little wolf," she began to twirl the knife, "let's take you home."

 **Yeah… pretty dark. So, I'm still in need of…**

 **Lord Lannister's son (mid-teens, ideally)**

 **Lady Theodosia Bolton's handmaidens (I need 2 more)**

 **Apart from these characters, I'm going to be incredibly wary of** _ **any**_ **characters that are between 16-23. If you look at my cast list, almost every character is that age. You are also allowed to submit one character per house.**

 **So, what do you guys want to see more of? The War in the North? The political games of King's Landing? Across the Narrow Sea? What did you like most? What** _ **didn't**_ **you like?**


	8. The North Remembers

**So, this is the shortest chapter yet – apologies. But it's mainly to introduce some new characters and to get the ball rolling a bit. The next chapter should make up for it.**

 **I know a lot of you want to see what's happening in Essos. Honestly, the story I have in mind is so long, I may have to split it up into four different parts… Anyhoo, I don't want to show Essos just yet…**

 **As for characters across the Narrow Sea, I'd like some select characters. Like, a courtesan that was the daughter of a Red Priest. Or… a Dothraki Sellsword. Maybe an Unsullied pit fighter – this is one of those few times I want really random characters. I'm going to be a bit more picky about Westerosi in Essos, though.**

 **So, I've got pretty much all the necessary characters. I'd like two more handmaidens for Thea Bolton. Also, some more bannermen for the Starks / Boltons. In particular, I need a Lord Bolton, still. I want something really different from his family.**

 **As you'll see, bannermen have a fair bit of screen time. Maesters are welcome, as are knights. Knights can be members of the Kingsguard, the Master-at-Arms for a keep and so on.**

 **Tylan Stark – Winterfell**

All the Lords of the North rode through from Wintertown. It was like all the old tales I'd been read in bed. I couldn't remember all the names. But I recalled some of the banners – a bear, a steel gauntlet, the lizard…

I scratched Renn's ears. He was a big hound, bigger than I was, with black, black fur. I looked back to the Lords riding in, trying to see if Finn would be there too. I couldn't really remember him, but I knew that, as soon as I saw him, I'd recognize him. He'd be as big as a mountain, and he'd look just like me and Markas.

"Tylan Stark!" I heard mother's familiar voice and turned around to face her. She wore her black dress, and towered above me like a castle. Her green eyes glared at me, and grabbed my arm. "Look at your clothes! They're absolutely filthy!"

"Mother, leave me-"

"Gods alive – have you been in the kennels again?"

"Why does that matter?"

Mother leant down towards me, pushing my hair out of my face, "No. More. Kennels." I just shrugged.

"Lady Margareth." I turned around with mother to see a man get off his horse. He was big, one of the biggest men I'd ever seen. He had a great, long, red beard, and looked to be half-giant! Wrapped in black furs and leathers, with a large battle axe strapped on his back, which was the size of two of me!

"Lord Glover," Mother bowed her head, "your son arrived two days ago."

"Aye, I'm glad to hear it." The Redbeard walked over to us. "I fail to see Lord Karstark."

"He remains in Karhold."

"He does, eh?" He looked towards me. "And who would this be? The kennelmaster's apprentice?"

"Lord Glover, this is my youngest, Tylan."

"Tylan?" Redbeard crouched down. "How old are you?"

"Ten." I replied.

"Eh?" He leant towards me, cupping his ear.

"I'm ten!"

Readbeard grunted and straightened up. "You're tall for your age. If a bit on the skinny side…" he chuckled to mother. I gritted my teeth and growled in response, until mother put a hand on my shoulder.

"Apologies, Lord Glover. Tylan prefers the company of wild dogs to other boys."

Redbeard threw his head back and belly-laughed, "He's got the wolf's blood, aye."

I followed mother and Redbeard through the courtyard. Past the kennels and stone wolves and up the stairs, into our hall. Inside, I saw lots and lots of other people. More than I could ever remember seeing. There was the Redbeard, who sat down next to Mormont and Ser Asher Dunn. At the big table at the back, I saw Evie sitting down, eyes all red and stung. And next to her, in father's chair, sat Markas.

Markas was much bigger than me. He had really, really black hair, which was weird, because no-one else in our family had black hair. I asked mother once, and she just said it's the Cassel in him. Markas wore a big cloak, like father used to, with our sigil on the straps.

"Tylan?" Mother asked me. "Tylan, what's wrong?"

"He's in father's chair." I stated. Markas always thought he was better than everyone. That's why Finn was sent away. Then father died. Now Markas is going to die.

"This is what Markas is meant to do," mother explained, "your father was Lord of Winterfell. And now that he's gone-"

"Markas is Lord of Winterfell. I know." I refused to look at her.

"Come on, little cub," mother put an arm around my shoulders, "why don't you sit with Evie?"

I humphed, but went along with mother all the same. I looked more like Evie – we had the same pale grey eyes, unlike any other Stark. Markas had the dark eyes, yet father's eyes were darker still. Only Finn had the exact same eyes like father. I asked mother why once, but she just said 'His mother had nothing to put in him'. I wasn't quite sure what this meant. Evie smiled when I came near.

"Ty, you're filthy!" She chuckled, "What have you been doing?"

"I was in the kennels."

"Little Lords shouldn't play with dogs."

"I wasn't playing. I was learning."

"Learning? Learning what?"

"How to be a Direwolf."

Evie laughed, and covered her forehead with her hand. "What?"

"We're Direwolves. So I'm learning how to be one."

"How can you learn to be a Direwolf from a dog?"

I paused a moment, thinking about it. They were both dog-ish? "Shut up!" I said, looking away from her. Evie laughed, and ruffled a hand through my hair.

"My Lords," we all looked around to see Markas stand up one hand on the hilt of father's sword, Ice. It was as big as half his body! "We have all lost too much in this battle. Sons, brothers, fathers," he looked towards mother for a moment, who had sat on the other side of him, "but I will not sit idle while Bolton men flay our brothers. I have called every loyal house so we may march east to the Dreadfort in force. My sister will join Stark with Baratheon in marriage." Some of the men slammed their tankards of ale on the table. Some groaned and mumbled.

"My Lord," Lord Reed stood up, "the Baratheons live on the other side of Westeros. They're knights of summer. Why not commission the Tully's or Arryn's for marriage?"

"I have given my word to Rylon Baratheon to wed my sister with his son." Markas stated.

"But, you have yet to be betrothed," Lord Reed stated, "the Arryn daughters are said to be young and beautiful-"

"A wolf doesn't need a falcon to fuck a flayed man!" Redbeard stood up, and most of the hall cheered for him.

"My Lords!" Markas tried to make them pay attention again, but they just wouldn't! "My Lords!" He tried again. Until, finally, Lord Mormont slammed his fist into the table, cracking part of it. Everyone went quiet, and Mormont nodded to Markas. "I am yet to take a wife, you're right, Lord Glover. But there will be no time for that. We must march east before the end of the month."

"Ha!" Laughed Redbeard, "The cub's a wolf's appetite."

"I talked with my sister," Markas continued, "and the only way that we can defeat the Boltons is if we unite. If we all band together." Markas swallowed and looked at all the Lords. "I wish to discuss Finn Snow."

The hall was quiet for a moment. Like no-one had heard him. They all looked at each other, before Redbeard spoke.

"You'd bring that bastard back?"

"Careful, My Lord," Markas responded, "that bastard is as much a Stark as any other man here."

"Aye, and he's just as much Bolton as our enemies!" Glover replied. "If not more so… if what they say is true…" Glover chuckled, along with most of the men in the hall. I leaned over to Evie.

"What does he mean?"

"He's just a silly old man." Evie responded.

"It seems Bennard Stark was not as honourable as we all thought." Redbeard mumbled darkly. I looked over to Markas. He couldn't sit there and listen to this man, it wasn't right.

"Say that again, old man." Markas' hands closed into a fist. Redbeard's hand rested on the hilt of his dagger.

"Lord Glover," mother stood up, "I assure you, my son does not mean to bring the boy back to our shores. He simply means to discuss this." Redbeard looked from mother to Markas and let out a small chuckle.

"Apologies, Lady Stark. Or, is it Lady Cassel, now?"

"You forget yourself, Lord Glover-" Mormont began to speak.

"I'm not offending, I'm just asking."

My mother's face remained like a stone. "I am a Stark, my Lord Glover. I will always be a Stark. Like my sons and like my daughter."

"Your son learns to speak for himself, my Lady." Redbeard stated, "A Lord that hides behind his mother's skirts is no true lord."

"You'd talk to your liege Lord like-" Mormont began.

"I'd educate an old friend's firstborn." Redbeard sighed. "I held your father close to my heart, in my younger years. Aye, he wasn't one for drinking or brawling, but he was a good man while I knew him. And then he left us," Redbeard turned around to face the other Lords, "travelled to help the southrons fend off the Ironborn, and let them sack the Stony Shore. Your father was Warden of the North, and he followed others' beck and call like some dog." Redbeard glanced towards mother, "I'd advise you learn from your Lord Father's mistakes."

Markas' eyes stayed fixed on Redbeard. "My father was a great man."

"Aye. Once. Then he became a fool." Redbeard turned to the silent Lords beside him once more, "I loved the man like a brother. And I miss him. But he was foolish. He housed Maryana Bolton, and whelped a bastard with her. Aye, I remember him arriving with her suckling the babe-"

I growled at Redbeard, talking about Finn like that. But it was Mormont who challenged him. "Please arrive at the point, My Lord."

"If your Lord Father had any sense he wouldn't have done any of this. Or, he would have at least slit the throats every Bolton there and then."

"This is not the time to argue over the past," Mormont declared, "the Boltons will be marching on Winterfell within the month."

"Let them come!" Called Renn Woodfoot, the Captain of the Guard.

"If we let them come to us, they'll roll over every keep they can. Our people will be flayed, and murdered. We will march East to the Dreadfort, and wipe the Boltons from the North." I looked over to Markas, terrified; I knew what was coming. I knew what he was going to say, because it's what Finn would have said. "I will lead you, as my father did before me." It was difficult to see under all that hair, but Redbeard started to smile. He pulled out his large battle-axe, and raised it towards Markas.

"The North Remembers!" And the hall broke out into men pulling out their own swords, raising them and chanting towards my brother. I stood up, and chanted all the same. Evie sat in her chair, gently muttering the words like mother did.

"The North Remembers."

 **So, back to King's Landing next. And then, we'll check in on Rickard of Crofters, who's having some R &R at the Dreadfort.**


	9. Blood of the Fyre

**Hey all. I thought I'd already told you guys before, but the list of every accepted character is on my profile. If your character isn't on there, it's because I haven't accepted them yet – I do get around to viewing all of the applications though.**

 **So, I could use some more knights – they'll either be put into the Kingsguard, City Watch or an army. They can come any house but Stark, Targaryen, Baratheon and Greyjoy.**

 **I know you guys want to see what's going on in Essos, and you will, but I'm not writing the chapter until I get these characters at the very least. Feel free to throw in other characters – like, courtesans, cut-purses, cutthroats, sellswords, Unsullied deserters, nobles, merchants…**

 **If you're sending an application for one of the following characters, you must include their opinion on Westerosi, Dothraki, Courtesans, Thieves, Sellswords, Bravos, The Iron Bank, The Rich and The Poor.**

 **Dothraki Screamer**

 **Water Dancer (older man)**

 **Water Dancer (younger woman)**

 **A little heads-up, I've got a hunk of coursework due in within the month, so updates will be sparse until February.**

 **Ashriel Tyrell – King's Landing, The Red Keep**

I had woken at the break of day to dress myself in a pale green dress. Modest, with a high collar, just like my Princess. It was often hard to navigate what to wear – Laena had a mercurial temperament, and was as likely to criticize me for wearing something too similar to her as she was for wearing something too different.

I went to the kitchens, and collected Laena's breakfast: soft-boiled pheasant eggs, fried oatbread (baked with dates, apple and orange) and candied nuts and plums. It took a moment to check she would be satisfied, and another moment to eat my own breakfast, which was the first attempt at boiling the phaesant eggs and frying the oatbread. It wasn't bad, not by any means. It was simply just not what Laena would want.

I took Laena's breakfast up to her room, and after a knock on the door, I entered her chambers, placing the silver tray of food on her table. As Laena began to slowly come to, I busied myself with talking about her various appointments during the day, while opening the shutters and doors to her balcony, pulling back the drapes and letting in that beautifully warming Spring-time sun.

"Viserys and Aeron are going to travel to Rhaenys' Hill today."

"Why?" Laena groggily inquired as she sat up.

"Your Grace, Visenya is said to be returning from Dragonstone today."

"Visenya?" Laena asked, a hand brushing over her burnt skin as she eyed me walking towards her, and pulling back the sheets. "Why is she back?"

"I suppose, Your Grace, it is because of His Grace's impending wedding."

"Oh, yes, Viserys…" Laena nodded, rising to get out of bed, "well, that will be an affair." I walked towards Laena's armoire, and removed a suitable purple dress. "You're aware Visenya was betrothed to Viserys?"

I felt my stomach clench as we spoke about Viserys being with another woman. Especially someone as reputably beautiful like Haylise, or adventurous and popular as Visenya. I was just a meagre handmaiden.

"Yes, Your Grace, I'd heard it was expected."

"It was more than expected. Father announced it at birth. He said they were one soul cloven in two and that they would be woven together through marriage at a suitable age. No, next." Laena waved a hand, and so I returned the dress to her armoire, and removed a dark scarlet one next.

"If you don't mind my asking, Your Grace…"

"Of course not, Ashriel. This one is fine." Laena gestured towards the dress I held.

"Why was this betrothal abandoned?"

"Well, because of Rylon, of course." Laena chuckled, "I will be Queen when Draegor and I marry. Viserys will secure the Stormlands' loyalty through Haylise the Ruined, Visenya will secure another kingdom, perhaps the Vale or the Riverlands, and Aeron will take the Reach." I didn't know how to respond to this. It was common knowledge that since I had been sent away from Highgarden by father, I had a lesser claim on my inheritance. A punishment, I suppose, for refusing to marry the decrepit old Folan Swann. But, when father passed, Delyth would inherit Highgarden, and Aeron through her. "How did Delyth respond to that little bit of news?"

"She was very excited and honoured, Your Grace-"

"Oh, spare me..." Laena removed her nightdress, and allowed me to begin dressing her. I tried to ignore her arms instinctively move upwards to cover herself – not her breasts or any other intimate part of her body. No, she simply flinched to cover the burns on her shoulder and neck. That corroded skin that twisted and contracted together on her otherwise unblemished body. "She'll be a Princess of Westeros. And after Dorne falls, she'll be Princess of the Seven."

"Until the Seven bless you and Draegor with children."

"Yes," Laena replied, sounding somewhat bored at the idea, "though I doubt my brother would be happy with that."

"Every man is happy with a son, Your Grace." I began to tie her bodice.

"Draegor hasn't been happy with anything since he lost his sight…" Laena stated, "he used to be respected – a better swordsman than Viserys. And now he can't even cut his own meat." Laena scoffed. "It's pathetic… he's a Dragon. Dragons do not lament over the past."

"Of course not, Your Grace." I finish dressing Laena, and walked towards her trunk to dig out appropriate shoes.

"Still… I suppose it should be amusing… watching her lay eyes on the harlot." Laena giggled. "She'll scurry back to Dragonstone."

"Why was she on Dragonstone, Your Grace?" I lifted up Laena's leg to fit on one of her shoes.

"Rylon made arrangements when she was sixteen." Laena shook her head, "Only the Gods can divine that man's mind…" She stood up after I finished putting her shoes on. "I expect our escort shall arrive any-" A knock on the door interrupted her. I made my way towards the door, opening it to see Ser Mikal Drake of the Kingsguard there, his red hair flowing beneath his golden helm. So tall and looming, like the giants I heard to have lived beyond the realm.

"The Lord Hand has requested for Princess Laena to join the Princes' Aeron and Viserys on Rhaenys' Hill."

"Aeron?" Laena wrinkled her nose, "Where is Draegor?"

"The Prince Draegor has taken to his chambers."

Laena's face contorted into a stone, void of any expression or care. She simply marched right past Ser Mikal with a dark mutter and began walking down the halls, shaking her head. "Your Grace?" I called. "Your Grace?" I jogged after her, past Ser Mikal, who simply marched. Laena opened the door to Draegor's chambers and strode inside.

I had only been in Draegor's chambers twice before, when accompanying Laena. Now, however, the drapes were shut, and the air smelled stale and damp. Mountains of volumes were strewn across the floor, and at the foot of his four-post bed, sat a long sword, with a ruby imbedded at the top of the hilt. The ruby had become dull, blanketed in dust; Clearly, Draegor had not held the sword in a time.

"Dreagor!" Laena stood at the foot of the bed. "What are you doing, get out of bed."

Draegor was a shadow of his former self. His warm silver hair was knotted and tangled, and those pale eyes sullenly glanced up to where Laena stood, his face frowning in recognition. "Laena?"

"Draegor, Visenya is returning. You've not seen her in over a year. Do you not want to?"

"Visenya would not recognize me." Draegor mumbled, turning back to his pillows.

"Draegor," Laena sat on the bed, "when was the last time you rode Broxagon?"

"I can't ride…" Draegor sighed, "not without my eyes."

Laena stood up and tore the sheets away, revealing Draegor in his nightshirt. "You are the first-born son of Rhaegon Targaryen, King of the Seven Kingdoms. You do not have the luxury to fall back into bed and die like some dog!" Draegor remained motionless. "Draegor, we are to be wed someday. And I will not be wed to a shell of a man like you."

Draegor sat up. "I can't rule. Let Viserys. Or Aeron-"

Laena cut Draegor off with a smack to his face. "Viserys is more a boy than a man. He still dreams of glorious battles like he did as a child. And Aeron is not a Dragon. Aeron is a bastard from the Vale."

"Laena…"

"Only you can rule."

 **Viserys Targaryen – King's Landing, Rhaenys' Hill**

The townsfolk had gathered to witness the return of their Princess, my sister Visenya. I trudged up the hill, often glancing to check that Draegor had a firm grip on the reigns. Draegor looked better than he had on his nameday, his hair now glimmering in the sunlight. He wore a dark black cloth tied around his eyes, and was wrapped in a long light scarlet robe. I suppose it was better than donning his armour, and pretending he was still a soldier. Draegor may not have been able to wield a sword anymore, but he was still a knight. To me, if not to anyone else.

I dismounted my horse once I was at the top of the hill, waving a hand at the smallfolk. Aeron soon came out of the carriage, with Laena and Ashriel. Beautiful Ashriel. Hair as soft as silk, falling down in spirals of dark midnight black. Intriguing, enchanting gold eyes that set something alight inside of me.

A roar cut off the cheers of the crowd. Their faces quickly turned to ones of terror and fear as they began to scatter. Looking up, I saw four creatures sweep across the sky. Our dragons.

The largest was Draegor's dragon, Broxagon. One of the eldest dragons, born four years before Draegor's birth. Ruby scales and golden horns, Broxagon moved through the skies with a heavy, imposing style. Broxagon was, however, clearly one of the slowest, from how the other dragons flew in circles around him.

Second to Broxagon's size was Helyax, the brute that was almost as slow as Broxagon, due to his old age. Helyax was Laena's mount, and before that, he was Lucaen's, our grandfather. Helyax was large like Broxagon, and just as red, only his horns were tarnished with a glimmering silver.

Then, there was Daenys, Aeron's dragon. A purple she-beast, not nearly as big as Broxagon or Helyax, but one that fell through the skies at a remarkable speed, often twirling and spinning. I smirked at the sight – she was as much a show-off as her rider.

Lastly, there was my own. Moonfyre. She was a dark bronze dragon, faster than Helyax, but larger than Daenys. Moonfyre soared down towards me, landing in front of me with a screech. I grinned, and held out a hand to stroke her snout. " _Gida_ … _gida…_ " I hushed gently, watching her relax under my hands. I looked around Moonfyre to see my siblings with their own dragons.

Draegor bowed to Broxagon, which let out a deep, satisfied rumble. Broxagon crept closer to Dreagor, sniffing the air, and glaring at Draegor's bandaged eyes. Eventually, after he had finished sniffing the air, Broxagon let out a loud growl, and moved his wing to Draegor, allowing him to mount.

Aeron stood beside Daenys, who stood on the hill, her violet eyes moving across the remaining smallfolk with interest, shuddering as Aeron stroked her horns gently. A large shriek came from Helyax, who had begun to growl at Ashriel.

"Helyax!" Laena called. " _Keligon_!" Helyax resorted to simmer, growling in discontent.

"Hungry again?" Aeron asked Laena with an amused smile.

"A dragon as big as him needs more food." Laena stated, casting a look of distaste over Daenys. "I wouldn't expect you to understand, Stone."

Aeron turned away from her, stroking a hand across Daenys again, his smile gone as his mouth transitioned into something of a frown. "That's not my name…" He murmured.

"Names may change. Blood does not." Laena replied.

"Peace, Laena," I walked towards her, "we shall ride first." Before Laena could respond, another shriek split through the sky, and we looked up to see a fifth dragon circle above. Sunfyre. Upon the birth of Visenya and I, twin dragonlings hatched. My own was the larger, with it's dark scales and golden tinges, as if there was fire coming from the moon in the dead of night. Visenya's dragon, however, was a brilliant emerald colour, with the same gold tinges. Sunfyre, the more rambunctious of the two. As Sunfyre approached, it landed down next to Moonfyre, beating his powerful wings and causing a gust that flapped my own cape behind me. Dismounting from Sunfyre, was my twin sister, Visenya.

Visenya was a head taller than Laena, and looked more so like mother, even when Laena was unburnt: pale gold hair winding in flowing waves towards the small of her back, lilac feline eyes that twinkled knowingly, and a round, delicate face like one of the maidens from the songs. She walked towards me, wearing a long, sinuous blue dress, fastened with a metal brooch of our family sigil. However, I did notice how her dresses had become more… indelicate.

"Viserys." She smiled, wrapping her arms around me. "It's been too long."

"Indeed," I agreed, "how is Dragonstone?"

"Urgh," she waved a hand as she walked towards Draegor, "duller and duller with each passing day. Your wedding is the most eventful thing that's happened. Draegor," She said, suddenly turning quite formal, "are you well?"

"Well enough." Draegor replied stiffly. Visenya paused for a moment, unsure of what to say. The two of them had never enjoyed a close relationship. I had not either, but I had often taken to sparring with him; when silence fell, we could resort to talk about the differences between Dark Sister and Blackfyre, or the counter-riposte we saw in a tourney. I suppose that we couldn't talk about that either now. Draegor couldn't hear anything about a sword without feeling sad.

"Visenya." Laena greeted her curtly.

"Laena." Visenya bowed her head. "Lady Ashriel-"

"You look older," Laena wove her eyes over Visenya's body, nodding towards her bust "and bigger."

"I've not been to court for a while. I have to admit, the subtleties are lost on me."

"Subtleties were never your strong suit, Visenya." Aeron smiled, walking over to her and giving her a warm hug. Out of all of my siblings, Visenya treated Aeron differently. True, Draegor was closest to him, but Visenya was genuinely warm to him.

"Aeron is lecturing me on subtlety? In those clothes, moreover?" She pointed to his ruby-encrusted surcoat and golden rings. Aeron shook his head with a laugh. Draegor mounted Broxagon, who beat his powerful wings before soaring up into the sky, leaving us down on the ground. "I think we've been issued a challenge." Visenya grinned, turning back to Sunfyre, who had been nestling against his sister, Moonfyre. However, before she could mount, Visenya's eyes fell on the figures behind me. Turning around, I saw Haylise, accompanied by Lady Lyra.

"Viserys." She smiled, as she came closer.

"My Lady," I bowed my head. What was she doing here? I had thought she would've stayed in the Keep, far away from the dragons. "excuse me, I hadn't expected to see you here."

"My Dragon," she smiled, brushed her Baratheon-black hair behind her ear, "I am to be yours. I wish to know everything there is to know about you." Beside Laena, Ashriel visibly scoffed, which turned into a loud cough. Lyra narrowed her jade eyes, while Ashriel moved closer towards me, seemingly unaware of Ashriel's coughing.

"My Lady," I suddenly realised Visenya was standing beside me, "this is my twin sister, Visenya…"

"My Lady." Visenya curtsied, as did Ashriel.

"Your Grace."

"Visenya, this is my betrothed, Lady Haylise of the House Baratheon."

"Ah, Rylon's daughter." Visenya recognized Haylise. "You look like your father. With less of a beard." She laughed, as did Haylise.

"Thank the Gods. I've been told I take after my mother." I looked between the two of them; Visenya narrowing her eyes at Haylise. It was no secret that Visenya had always looked forward to our union. Truths be told, I didn't shy from the idea. She was lovely, kind-hearted and we had always been close. I could have a wife a great deal worse than Visenya. Haylise bowed her head.

"Well, I'm sure she's a great beauty." Visenya plastered on a smile. I nodded my thanks to her – it seemed like a blessing that she bestowed upon Haylise and me in that short smile. "Now, I fear Draegor's unchallenged at present." Visenya mounted Sunfyre, who moved away from Moonfyre and shook his wings, taking flight. Laena followed quickly, on Helyax, who she had pestered into taking flight.

"Your sister seems lovely."

"She is… when people deserve it." I smiled. Haylise glanced her icy blue eyes down to the floor, almost like she was shy.

"So," she moved closer, "this is your Dragon?" I looked back to see Moonfyre looking up at Haylise, standing up and tilting her head in interest. Haylise took a step backwards, clutching my hand. I looked down at her hand, and couldn't stop myself chuckling. Moonfyre had always been well-behaved, and never hurt anyone. Which was more than could be said for the others.

"It's okay," I assured her, "this is Moonfyre. She's more gentle than she looks."

"She?" Haylise asked, eyes locked on Moonfyre, wide in shock.

"Yes, Sunfyre's her twin. Sunfyre is Visenya's mount." I explained. It was only when Haylise looked at me, that I realised how close we were to each other. She stood mere inches from me, her hand still touching mine. "Do you want to touch her?" I asked, clearing my throat.

"You're sure it's safe?" She asked, looking at Moonfyre's large teeth, digging crookedly into the scales under her snout.

"Here," I took held her wrist and softly walked her forwards to Moonfyre, moving my hand with hers towards the snout. I felt her hand flinch away when Moonfyre would breathe, and she moved closer to me, so there was no space between our bodies. I could feel the curve in the small of her back, her hips fitting against mine, how my shoulders seem to roll around hers. The smell of honeycomb carried by the breeze. "it's okay." Haylise's hand tensed as she touched the scales, her eyes still wide as she began to smile, watching Moonfyre's eyes flicker between myself and her. "Don't be scared."

"I'm not scared." She murmured softly, and right then, I believed it. Her eyes weren't wide with shock or terror. Instead, she was staring not at Moonfyre's teeth, but at her eyes. "Does she like me?"

"Well, she hasn't bitten you yet." I smiled at her. "Moonfyre's just cautious. She can sense that you aren't a Targaryen."

"Not yet." Haylise, removing her hand from Moonfyre, and placing it in my hand. "Thank you, Your Grace." Those upturned azure eyes of a cat peered up from the floor, and straight into my own. Her other hand softly slid up my jerkin, and tangled itself in my silver hair. Her full red lips moved closer, half-open as her teeth gnawed at the lip, her eyes drawn to my own. And over her shoulder, I saw Ashriel.

"I'm…" I pulled away from her, "Moonfyre, he's…" I bowed my head and mounted my dragon to fly.

 **Aeron Targaryen – King's Landing, Rhaenys' Hill**

It was all so easy to notice. Well, it was for me, anyway. One look at beautiful, noble Viserys panicking with Haylise in his arms, and another look at Ashriel glaring. Well, after being in the background for so long, you learn to pay attention to the details.

Viserys clambered onto Moonfyre and soared off to join Laena, Visenya and Draegor. All four of them together – the trueborn Targaryens. They'd always looked down on me… The Dragon's Bastard from the Vale. The Stone Dragon. What an ironic name – they saw me as a Stone, but not as a Dragon. Laena, most of all. Viserys and Visenya… well, they saw me as some distant cousin. And Draegor? We had been close, on occasion.

I walked towards Ashriel, who was trying to act like she wasn't scowling at Haylise returning to Lady Lyra. "My Lady." I nodded, hands clasped behind my back.

"Your Grace." She huffed.

"What's the matter? Feeling a tad left out?"

"Your Grace?" She looked at me, brows furrowed together. She reminded me of her sister, Delyth, from what I saw of her at Court. A pretty young thing to be sure, though there was something more to Ashriel. A sort of… intrigue.

"Viserys the Brave." I chuckled at the name. Not a mocking chuckle, mind you. No, I just found it all so… quaint. Young Viserys with his little sword, like one of the heroes from the songs. He would always be the little boy with a wooden sword to me. "And his betrothed."

Haylise's eyes widened for a moment, as she shook her head. "I have no idea what you're insinuating." I let out another chuckle, hanging my head for a moment.

"You have no-"

"No, I don't." She said firmly, eyes directed straight ahead, looking away from me. Like a liar.

"You should be offended." I informed her. "And you would have an idea of what I was insinuating if it wasn't true."

"Your Grace-"

"Do you think I'm as dumb as the rest of them?" I laughed, nodding my head towards the guards behind us. "You need to get better at lying," I looked around casually, making sure no-one else was within earshot, "especially if this is to continue through his marriage to Haylise."

"It won't. I mean, I don't-"

"Never admit to the lie." I instructed her. "No matter what they do or say, they can't prove anything unless you admit to it."

Ashriel looked up at me, confused. "You sound like an experienced liar."

"This is King's Landing." I stated.

"Why are you trying to help me?" I looked at those large golden eyes, that midnight black hair like silk, little lithe body… she was a true Tyrell rose: Beautiful, but with many thorns.

"I'm partial to ruined maids." I grinned. Ashriel shook her head.

"You may have the hair, you may have the eyes, you may have the name, but you'll never have the blood of the Dragon." She leant in close. "Draegor may want you to stay and advise him, but Laena will be the true ruler. How many nights do you think she'll let you sleep?"

Ashriel returned to her carriage as Haylise and Lyra walked back to their own. I turned back to Daenys, mounting her. This was the way it had always been – the four trueborns in the sky, and the bastard on the ground, where he belonged. I would always be naturalborn around them. I'd been a fool to dare to believe anything else. I knew that now.

 **There we go – a whopping 4,000 words (roughly). This isn't the standard length of chapters, I just started writing and wanted to put in more to make the story flow better. So, I hope you guys enjoyed. Please remember to drop a review detailing what you thought.**

 **Next chapter we're going to spend some time in the North, and see how Rickard's enjoying his little vacay-cay at the Dreadfort. Then, we'll stop by back at Winterfell.**


	10. The Red Queens

**So, someone asked me why I rated this M? Well, because of the following chapter. It's kind of disturbing… I kind of enjoyed writing it though – there's not really any other chapter like it. So, if you're not a fan of horror or gore, DO NOT READ.**

 **As for characters, I'm still in need of people across the Narrow Sea. I can't show anything occurring in Essos until I have some more characters. I'd like 3 Bravos (Water-Dancers), a Dothraki and a Courtesan. These are the essential roles, but I'll accept others. Whether they're merchants, bankers, fishermen etc.**

 **Also, to the** _ **Guest**_ **who asked, I've shown all the Boltons I've accepted. I'm still considering another Baratheon, but if you're asking about Storm's End, I won't be showing that for a while, since all the Baratheons are in King's Landing for the wedding of Haylise.**

 **I'm also in need of a Lord Bolton at the moment.**

 **Rickard of Crofter's – The Dreadfort**

The dark canvas sack was removed from my head, and as I looked around, the chamber was so dark, it didn't take a moment for my eyes to adjust. I looked up to my wrists, which had been constricted by leather straps. I was on a heavy oak contraption, legs spread apart like my arms. In front of me, stood the woman who had captured me. Dark hair, a pale face, but like one of them maids from the songs. Her simple blue dress unlaced at the chest, revealing much of her bust. As I said, tits like a whore.

"Welcome back." She had her head tilted to the side, as she leant back on the table behind. No smile. No, she stared at me with great attention, observing me like she was trying to learn what I was doing. Fuck all, against this cross.

"Who the fuck are you?" I tried to keep my breathing even – not show these bastards fear. As I spoke, I remembered her dagger – the sigil of the flayed man. She was a Bolton.

"Your Mistress." She stated.

"Oh, aye?" I scoffed, "slip out of that dress and show me then." I sniggered, waiting for her to hit me. Her face didn't change at all. She simply cocked her head to the other side. "What?"

"You're already scared…" she stated, walking towards me, hips swaying from side to side with each sound of her heel against the stone slabs. "I've barely touched you." She pulled out her small knife once more, dragging it along my neck softly and casually, looking at it with great focus. "You're trying to hide it, but you stink of fear…"

"Go fuck yourself in the arse," I said, looking away from her, trying to keep my breathing ragged, but I could feel it creeping up my chest and into my throat. The panic. I couldn't let it consume me, but the cold steel of her knife did little to still the feeling. She let out a soft throaty chuckle.

"I like that." She moved her other hand to the lace of her dress, pulling at one of the strands and loosening it further, showing more skin, and more of her bust. "Stark men are so different to others." She said, as she began to pull at the laces, opening more and more of her dress, as the other hand guided the knife across my body. "Have you ever seen the muscles of an arm before?" I was caught off-guard – I didn't even know how to speak when she said this to me. Truth be told, I had no fucking clue the words she had said for a moment. "I'll take that as a 'no'." She chirped before moving her knife to my right forearm, and starting to needle at the skin, working her way across the width of it. I couldn't contain myself, and let out a yell, pulling at my restraints, spit flying from my lips as I hissed out in pain.

"I know, I know…" She shushed me, "it's worth it, you'll see." She had made a scar across the width of my wrist, and began to dig at the sides, pinching the skin with her other hand.

"You… fuck…" I hissed. She let out a small smile as my skin began to tear and give, stretching away from my arm in agony.

"Just a bit more…" She let out a small giggle, "I'll be gentle." And then she ripped the skin downwards, towards my elbow. I let out a strangled yell through gritted teeth. And thank the Gods I did, otherwise I fear I would have bitten clean through my tongue. I refused to look at my arm, facing the other side of the room with eyes stinging red hot. "Look at it." she crooned gently, wrapping one of her skeletal hands behind my ear, pressing her cold fingers against my scalp.

"No." I shook my head, looking away from her, but as I did so, her hand held my head more firmly, and she brought her red lips against my own. As she kissed me, ever so delicately, I couldn't stop myself from wondering what the taste was on her lips. Warmer, and sending sparks crackling through my own.

As she pulled away, I felt something else – a horrible twang sounded and my ring finger fell numb. I looked over to it, a severed white line poking out through my flesh. No matter how I tried, my ring finger stayed motionless.

"It all works so well together…" she said, looking at my arm with a child-like smile, full of wonder and fascination, "do you not think so?"

"Just stop it," I gasped, "please, just stop-"

"You do not give orders to your Mistress," she pointed the knife to me as she giggled, digging it into my arm again. Another string snapped, and my little finger became still.

"I'll tell you anything you want." I closed my eyes – the room had begun to spin. Gods, I wanted to fall into a deep slumber – away from this demon.

"Anything?" She asked, walking around me once me, one gaunt hand open and dragging along my shirt, while the other clasped the knife, which slipped against my back gently. "Will you tell me your name now?"

"Rickard!" I shouted quickly, hoping she'd remove the knife from my body, "my name is Rickard!"

"Rickard…?"

"of Crofter's!"

"But I thought you said you were Brandon the Builder." She said innocently. I shook my head, trying to look away from her, but she moved her knife down to my breeches, cutting at the drawstrings, and letting the knife rest between my legs. "Talk." She ordered me.

"I was being funny." I said, eyes fixed on the knife.

"How amusing," she breathed deeply, then moved the knife away from my body, "you're quite the little fool aren't you?" I gritted my teeth. I'd already lost two fingers to the woman, and I'd be damned if I lost another. "Aw, has the little rat forgotten how to talk?" Again, I remained still, eyes remaining on her. I wouldn't play into her game any further. I was a soldier for the Stark family. And I would die in chains rather than play into this woman's games. "Bored now." She said, voice void of any emotion. As if she had lost all interest in me, and directed her attention elsewhere. With a casual hand, she dug the blade into my arm and severed the other tendons.

As I let out my screams, watching my fingers remain still as a corpse's, the woman simply walked back to another woman, who had remained at the door. My captor handed her the piece of skin she had peeled from my arm, "Katya, be a darling and sew this back on for me, would you?"

"Yes, Lady Theodosia." The woman curtsied, and walked over to the table, picking up a needle and some string. She came back over to me, looking at the bloody mess on my arm. She was shorter than the demon woman, and far less beautiful. However, every strand was held perfectly in place, her dress was more what you would expect from a Lady. But, by the Gods, she had tits a man would sell his first-born to have a go on. Golden-brown hair twisted into a plait, like them proper Ladies wore their hair.

"Who are you?" I asked her. She just stared at me blankly, as if she couldn't understand what I was saying. "Where am I?" She didn't respond, and started to sew my skin back onto my forearm. "I know you can talk! I heard you just now!" She stopped sewing, looking at the muscles under my skin, and the torn tendons that hung out of my arm like undone drawstrings. She let the needle hang off the wire, tugging at my arm, and began to pinch at the tendons, curling and unfurling my fingers. And then, she began to tie them back together. "Thank you…" I began to thank her, until I realized the tendons were crossing each other. "no, you're doing it wrong." I informed her, but she didn't stop. She continued to tie them back with an occupied furrowing of the brow. "No, stop it! Stop!"

 **Ilyana Bolton – The Dreadfort**

I stood on the battlements, watching Ilyana walk from dungeons, lacing up her dress. Young Thea with her games. Smiling and simpering at the townsfolk that moved past her. She'd be sent off soon, to marry. Perhaps we'd strap down Markas and get Thea to mount him. As soon as there's a baby in her belly, we could slit the Wolf's throat and end this wretched war with the Starks. Or we could send her off the Iron Islands, wed her to a Greyjoy. I smiled at the thought, her being taken by some Ironborn reaver. He'd stamp out any spirit left in the woman. Sap the soul out of her until the was little else left but bitterness and cruelty. This was the destiny of all women, and I would have prayed to the Gods for this fate to befall her as soon as possible.

Raff stood in the middle of the courtyard, sparring with some of the soldiers. His Bolton black hair had been shaved off, as had his beard, revealing his hollow cheeks, and stony grey eyes, which eyed his opponents. He wore his breeches and no shirt, revealing lean muscle and numerous scars from his time in the Iron Islands. A shame; if only they had cut a little deeper, the boy would join Ben Stark and the whore Maryana in eternal darkness. I gripped my cane at the thought. Perhaps Markas Stark would be kind enough to send him to a shallow grave. And then on to here, to do the same to his dastardly father.

I would watch him spare often, showing all that the cold would not dare kill him. The men were tentative, watching him twirl an axe in one hand, and his broad dagger in the other, walking calmly as they encircled him. One attacked – and for a moment, I hoped they might drive their sword deep through his heart. Instead, Raff swung his axe around, knocking the blade onto the ground, and driving his dagger deep into the man's wrist. He moved backwards with a roar, throwing the man into another before swinging his axe into a shield, obliterating it.

I made my way down the battlements; Raff's games did not anger me like Thea's. No, they simply bored me. He was a simple-minded brute, just like his father. As I walked, everything around me began to blur, flickering and flitting out of being. I watched as the stone and mud began to slip away, consumed by bright flames as a beast rose from the blames, brilliantly white. It resembled the myths of an Ice Dragon, beyond the Wall. It beat it's powerful wings, toppling stone from the towers of the keep, and opening it's mouth to breathe searing fumes upon me…

"Lady Ilyana," I turned around, seeing one of Thea's handmaidens, Elyse, curtsy, "Lord Bolton requests your presence." I brought up my cane, and struck it against her leg, watching her kneel before me. The images of the dragon and flames had dissipated, and I was once again in this desolate reality. "My Lady?" I struck my cane against her face.

"Never. Interrupt me." I hissed.

"Forgive me, My Lady-" I beat her again.

"Miserable wretch." I snarled. It was always the way here – Thea's handmaidens. Always watching me, spying, eavesdropping. They were all waiting for me to sleep, then they would come. Invade my dreams like the demonic apparitions they were. "Leave me."

The girl got to her feet, bowed her head, and fled. Weak. They were all weak. Weak little children, yet to suffer in the world as I had. Back when I was an Umber. Soon, I'd watch them all burn. The Dragon would return and set the North alight.

By the Gods, I would dance in the inferno on that day. Raff and Thea, my knave of a husband… they'd all burn. And we would all leave this world and be consumed by emptiness.

 **So… yeah. Could you imagine a reality show focused around the Boltons? I guess that's kind of what this is… Ilyana's chapter may feel a bit fractured, but that was intentional.**

 **Anyway, keep those reviews and characters coming!** **Next chapter is back to Winterfell.**


	11. The Queens of Winter

**Okay guys, so I'm not writing any chapters in Essos until I get some more characters over there. I've just travelled across the country, so I did this on the train. So, I need Essos characters and Bolton bannermen.**

 **Again, repeat, if you want me to show Essos, you need to send in some characters. I've got a great idea for the storyline there as well…**

 **Margareth Stark – Winterfell**

Evie looked beautiful. Maybe not by the standards of the Southnors, who prized delicacy and a coy little smile, wrapped immodestly in silk. But she was beautiful in the Northern way. Not just in her flint-grey eyes and pale skin, but in her spirit. While the Southnor women would sit idle and let their men fight, Evie had taken to reading tomes and volumes on healing and medicines. She was strong, just like her brother. Just like her father.

I may not have been born a Stark, but you wouldn't have been able to tell. My eyes were dark, my face long and my hair that russet brown that Starks were known for. All of the children bore these features. At least, all of my children did. The Stark children.

The bastard Finn had always looked more like a Stark. With his long, pale face, dark leathery brown hair and darker eyes. A cocksure rowdy. It seemed only Ben's true-born sons grew out of this. Markas now heeded my advice, and knew I held his interests at heart. Tylan, on the other hand, was still young. He would soon mature. At least, he would if we emerged from this dreadful war.

I finished with Evie's hair, trying to pretend I couldn't hear her sobbing quietly. It was even harder to pretend there weren't tears in my eyes. "You're going to be the Lady of the Stormlands," I tried to keep my voice chipper, "and you'll be married to Ryleigh Baratheon, and you'll have a large wedding, where all will look upon you…"

"Will Finn be allowed to come?" Evie croaked. I paused, still holding the loose strands of her hair. It was understandable – she had been brought up with him, but she was too young to understand. Finn was a bastard.

"No, my love," I continued to plait her hair, "he will not."

"But why not? If I am the Lady of the Stormlands…"

"He was exiled by your father."

"But father's…" Evie stopped, picking at her nails, "Markas is Lord of Winterfell now."

"No-one knows where he is." I explained.

"I was talking to Markas! Finn-"

"Finn Snow was a brash boy. He was hot-tempered and… boisterous. And you'd do well not to think too much about him. He's on the other side of the world now." That is, if he wasn't dead already. I knew it was wrong to think such things, but there was little he had ever done that hadn't hurt or hindered our family's name.

"Mother?" Evie asked after a moment.

"Yes, my love?"

"Why was he like that? I mean… boisterous."

"Bastards are born of lust and envy," I explained, "conceived in sin. Blood will tell. He's the bastard son of a traitor," I explained. "It would be as if inviting a Bolton to the wedding."

"But… how can he be a Bolton if he can't be a Stark?" I placed the brush on the table and held her hands, looking her in the eye.

"You're too smart for your own good sometimes." Evie gave me a small smile before I kissed her on the head. I suppose that, aside from all the trouble he'd started, Finn was a reminder. A constant reminder that my sweet, honourable Ben had loved another woman. Yes, most men had bastards, and frequented whores, but that wasn't Ben's way. The only one he had known had been Maryana Bolton. It was her that Finn inherited his pale skin and bloodthirsty nature. I didn't want to, but I often found myself overhearing the scullery maids talking about how often Ben and Maryana saw each other. No-one had ever known about the two of them, until Ben returned back to Winterfell with Maryana Bolton, and a baby boy.

Perhaps I could have overlooked Finn. Perhaps I could have overlooked a dozen more of him. But Bennard was a Stark, and lived by a Stark's code of honour. He would not let the boy be raised in Crofter's, or in any keep other than Winterfell. No matter how much I reasoned, argued or pleaded with him, he always kept his first-born close.

Evie and I walked out into the courtyard of Winterfell, where the rest of our family had gathered. Markas stood there, brows screwed together in pain. I knew this decision weighed heavily on him. My darling boy. As I came closer, I recognized the cloak draped over his shoulders – it was Ben's old cloak. The dark grey fur nestled against his jaw as he stepped forwards to Evie.

"Evie…" He clenched his jaw, trying to find the words to say. But, Evie just flung her arms around his neck tightly. Markas wrapped his arms around her waist, lifting her up high so that her feet dangled off the ground. Their cloaks wrapped around each other, and for a moment, they were one and the same. A Direwolf. A Stark.

"I'll do what's required of me." Evie promised as Markas gently lowered her back down to the ground.

"I know you will." He told her, placing one gloved hand behind her head, "no matter what happens, you're a Stark of Winterfell. This will always be your home."

Evie tried to smile, but I saw the tears flee from her eyes. I remembered being the same when I left my family. But, I stayed in the North, marrying the Lord of the House we served. More to the point, I was in my third decade by the time I married. Evie was a full ten years younger than I had been, and was being sent off to the other side of Westeros. A Kingdom she didn't know, with people she didn't know.

Evie moved towards Tylan, who stared determinedly at the ground, little fists clenched in anger. Gods, bless him – he was too young to understand. This was what every woman was destined for.

"Tylan?" Evie asked, clasping her hands. Tylan turned away from her, shoulders heaving gently as he tried not to sob. "Tylan, I promise I'll come back soon." Still, he didn't respond, looking at the dirt. "Can I have a hug?" She asked. Tylan still refused to move, until Evie turned to walk to her horse. Tylan grabbed her arm, and walked along with her. I smiled at the sight, though it wasn't a happy smile. Tylan was becoming a proper Lord now – escorting his Lady sister away.

I walked next to Markas, watching Evie mount her horse, next to a garrison of twenty soldiers. "She'll be safer there." I informed him.

"Aye." Markas nodded.

"The Boltons can't touch her there."

"I know." Markas sighed, and began to pull on his gloves. "I'll be in the Hall with the Lords."

 **Markas Stark – Winterfell**

"What about the Targaryens?" Lord Reed pondered aloud. "Rhaegon and Vysella have always treasured the North. Every year, they put forth five thousand men to the Night's Watch-"

"Rhaegon is an old and dying man!" Cedric 'Redbeard' Glover responded. "And Vysella was fond of Ben Stark, not the North."

"Regardless, marrying a Targaryen would cement our hold on the North for a thousand-"

"The wolf does not need the dragon to fell a flayed man." Everyone turned to see which Lord had spoken – Ichabod Cerwyn. A tall, intimidating man; all muscle and withering glares. His nose was long, though the eye was drawn to the large scar that ran across the length of his face from hairline to jawline. His auburn hair fell past his shoulders in tangled knots. "But I'm not sure I see any wolves here."

"Lord Cerwyn," I greeted him, "we didn't know whether you would come."

"I didn't either…" Ichabod drifted his eyes over the rest of the men, "it's not often I ride in the wrong direction. I'd sooner turn my horse towards the Dreadfort."

"We're not to march yet, Lord Cerwyn." I picked up the wooden wolves, moving them on the map. "If we assemble all of our forces, we can march East, and besiege the keep on all sides."

"A siege?" Redbeard growled, standing up. "A fucking siege? I thought we were riding into battle!"

"If we besiege the castle, Lord Bolton's men will turn against him." I reasoned. "It won't take long. Mother always said that the Boltons would never assume anyone would besiege the Dreadfort. They won't have the supplies."

"Did your mother also tell you about how the Dreadfort got its name?" Lord Cerwyn moved forwards. "Do you know about the cloaks that the Red Kings would fashion for themselves?" Cerwyn turned around to face the other Lords, "The Boltons earned their sigil. Northerners are not meant to sit idle and watch men starve. It's how the Southnors wage war, but not us." The men murmured in agreement. I tried to swallow my anxiety, watching them all rally behind Cerwyn. I took a drink to try and hide this, as well as steady my nerves. "We should storm the Dreadfort. Rip them all out root and stem!"

"If the Boltons were in power, they'd surely do the same to us. Terror only inspires terror," I repeated my father's words, "and it is my duty as a Stark to be better than our enemies. It's no secret that my father took Maryana Bolton here…" The men started to hiss, "and if it were the Boltons who had taken my sister, I would act just as they do."

"We can debate about what we would do," Lord Cerwyn walked back to his seat, "but the Boltons are our enemies. Would you have us make peace with them?" The men immediately broke out in yells and arguments:

"I won't break bread with any Bolton cunt!"  
"Fuck the Boltons!"

"Oathbreakers!"

"Traitors!"

"My Lords!" I tried to call them to reason. "My Lords, please!" It was no use – they were all screaming for Lord Bolton's head, as well as his family's. But then, the doors opened, and all the shouting and bluster subsided. In walked my mother, clasping her hands and traversing down the length of the hall, with each man bowing their head to her. Her face remained stone and unmoving. The Lady of Stone.

"My son is Lord of Winterfell." My mother spoke, "Where are you, Lord Cerwyn?"

Cerwyn looked around, as if someone would tell him why he was being asked this question, "Winterfell."

"My son's word is law here. You swore a sacred vow to protect your liege lord, did you not?"

"I did." Cerwyn shifted uncomfortably.

"You hold no great love for my family, Lord Cerwyn." Mother spoke. "I hold very little for you. You're a bloodthirsty beast, and loathed my husband." She looked around at the men, who had fallen totally silent. "It may be Spring, but winter is coming. This is the only certainty. And when Winter comes, we cannot be at war with the Boltons. We do not all need to love each other," my mother made her way to the seat next to me, "but we need to work together. If only to keep each other alive." The men grumbled in agreement. The Redbeard, Glover, stood up and looked between mother and I with a smirk.

"What a leader you are, Lord Stark." He rolled his eyes as he pulled into a deep, melodramatic bow. A couple of the men snickered. My fist clenched, and I got the urge to hang the man immediately. Or behead him. Whichever was quicker. But my Lord Father taught me that being Lord was like having children.

"Thank you, Lord Glover." I said through gritted teeth.

 **So, send in those Essosi (Essosini? Essosoni?) as soon as you can. Because, as soon as I get more characters, we're going across the Narrow Sea, to Essos.**


	12. The Dragon and the Stag

**So, here's a slightly different chapter. I wanted to give a broad King's Landing scope, and the wedding was just… well, boring. So, let's get to this quite boring affair of a wedding, and check in on all the scheming…**

 **This is the longest chapter yet, so… enjoy.**

 **Also, I've decided to go to my original plan of not going to Essos for this first section of the story. There's a pretty good thematic reason as to why.**

 **Ooh, and can I get more Northern Lords? A Lord Bolton would be pretty great… Like, as soon as I get him, I can do a lot more with the Boltons.**

 **Lyra Lannister –King's Landing, The Red Keep**

Haylise looked beautiful. I wasn't particularly inclined towards dresses, but Haylise had a way about her of making anything beautiful. A beautiful white gown, with a pair of golden antlers interwoven around the left of her waist. On the right, was the golden tail of a dragon. Haylise had been very particular in designing her own bridal gown, and now I could see why. I continued to tie her hair back.

"Do you think he'll like it?" Haylise asked as I twisted one of her plaits.

"I think you know he will." I smiled – she thought I hadn't noticed, but her hair was an inky black replication of Visenya's hair the other day. I fastened the gold chains in her hair, keeping it beautiful and ornate and as delicate as her face.

"I know you haven't asked yet," Haylise sipped from her cup, "but I'll be residing in Dragonstone soon. And that means I may have new handmaidens." Truth be told, I wasn't worried. I had known Haylise long enough to think of her as a younger sister. And she wouldn't be able to send me away – I'd always look after her.

"I'm sure they'll serve you well." I grinned, humouring her.

"Who knows? Maybe you'll find your own husband tonight."

"Oh yes," I rolled my eyes, "how I long to swaddle a brat…" I knew that my father would try to betroth me to another soon enough. But marrying a Lord, bearing his children and being the Lady of a keep… I'd sooner choose the life of the Silent Sisters. "I suppose marrying Ryleigh wouldn't be so bad…" I mused. Ryleigh was nothing like his sister – nothing like any Baratheon, really. He was gentle and kind-hearted, free of any boasting and bragging. He wasn't particularly charming or skilful, but he'd make a good husband to the right woman. Though, he was a great deal younger than I. Then again, girls yet to become women had been made brides by milk-brothers of their grandfathers.

"Ryleigh has already made a match," Haylise informed me, "father told me he's to wed Evalyn Stark."

"A Stark?" I laughed. "I fear she won't fit in well at Storm's End…"

"How so?"

"Your handmaidens made be able to weather dreadful storms, but when I tell one story of a woman fucked in the ass…"

"Lyra!" Haylise gently slapped me on the arm, though I saw the corner of her lip turn up in a smile. She could try to deny it, but she knew I was right; most women acted far too delicately.

"This is what I mean. At least a Northerner will be able to say the word 'cock' without giggling…" Haylise chuckled again. "Who else is there… I could marry the other Stark. The brother?"

Haylise shook her head, "I wouldn't advise it."

"What's his name again?"

"Lord Markas."

"That's it," I nodded, "I reckon Northern men know how treat a woman properly. Not like most of these perfumed ponces…" I realised that Haylise had fallen silent. "Haylise?" I rested a hand on her shoulder, breaking her out of her daze.

"I'm sorry…" Haylise shook her head, "I just realised, I'm to be a married woman."

"And a princess." I reminded her. "I'll have to call you 'Your Grace'."

"Viserys isn't next in line." Haylise pointed out.

"Come," I held out a hand, and let her stand in front of me, "let's see if we can ensure my spinsterhood." Haylise grinned, and took my hand.

 **Aeron Targaryen** **– King's Landing, The Red Keep**

The ceremony had been a dull affair. Yes, yes, Haylise Baratheon entered the hall and all fell silent, many an eye had a tear – most of the crying came from all the ladies weeping over beautiful, bold Viserys taking a wife. The High Septon spouted his nonsense about Gods binding Viserys and Haylise together, and the two kissed, sparking a roar of applause from all of us. I clapped my hands, but I was too focused on Princess Laena. Or, rather, the woman beside her – Ashriel.

If Rylon Baratheon tried to make me marry someone I didn't want to, I'd remove his head. I was a Dragon. I didn't care what Laena or Vysella or anyone else said – I was of the House Targaryen.

I had been sitting at my place on the table (which was in front of Viserys and Haylise) for two cups of wine before I was approached.

"Prince Aeron," Oroville Tyrell, the old man bowed his, "enjoying yourself?"

"Lord Tyrell," I bowed my head in return, "I always love a party."

"I find it all quite tiresome, to be honest…" Oroville grabbed a serving girl's arm, and pointed at his empty cup, "meaning no offense, Your Grace."

"None taken," I shook my head, "though I trust you'll summon some more enthusiasm for the next one." I smiled.

"You're taking to marriage better than most men." Oroville grumbled, leaning back in his chair, "I cursed the Seven day and night for a week."

"I've heard your daughter is a delightful young woman," I explained, "she'll do well in court." My eyes drifted towards the two women that sat together on another table. Beside Ashriel, was clearly her sister. Ashriel was pretty in a plain way, but Delyth was the true beauty. Just like Ashriel, but infinitely more striking. While Ashriel wore a high-collared dress in the fashion of Laena, Delyth dressed more like Haylise the Harlot. A single piece of green fabric fell from her neck, and broke into two strips, which covered her bust, and wrapped back around to from a bow between her shoulderblades. Her midriff was exposed, showing a soft, flat stomach of glowing skin. That is, until the eye drifted below the navel, where a long dress that hung from her waist. Delyth's eyes found mine, and I saw her mouth widen into a smile, as her eyes glinted up at me.

"Yes, well, she's long wanted to be at court." Oroville grumbled. "I doubt the Gods themselves could wrest her away from this match. She's set on being a princess."

"As are many other women…" I drifted my eyes across the daughters of Velaryon, Cargyll and other trivial lords. "What are you plans for Ashriel?"

"Ashriel?" Oroville thumbed his chin, "I suppose she will remain Princess Laena's handmaid until I make her a good match."

"Might I inquire as to who your mind is set on?"

"Perhaps Addam Lannister…" Oroville pointed with his goblet to the golden-haired man that had grown bored of the Lady beside him, and had instead pulled the serving girl onto his lap, one hand pulling up her dress as he nuzzled into her neck.

"What is he… eleventh in line?" I snorted. "Aiming a bit low aren't you?"

Oroville raised an eyebrow, "True… though I expect the standards may rise when Delyth is made a Princess."

"I expect so too." I nodded. "I suppose I should introduce myself to her…" I stood up from my table and bowed my head to Oroville.

 **Haylise Baratheon – King's Landing, The Red Keep**

It felt good – everyone looking at me without any snickers or jibes. Yes, I never cared when they made their jokes regardless, but it was nice to know no-one was doing that here. Instead, everyone was just celebrating my marriage. I had entered into the greatest dynasty this world had ever known.

"So," Viserys leaned over to me, "is everything to your liking?"

"It is indeed, Your Grace."

"Viserys." He said, waving a hand. "I've never particularly liked the titles. Besides," he took a deep breath, "I'm your husband now. There's no need for such formalities."

"I'm glad you feel that way, Viserys." I smiled. "I've heard that we are to travel to Dragonstone."

"Yes, eventually." Viserys nodded. "I expect it will be sometime after Aeron's marriage." His eyes drifted over to his half-brother, who sat next to a pair of Tyrell sisters.

"You sound positively excited for that day." I noticed. Viserys let out a small chuckle.

"Forgive me. The subtleties of court are somewhat lost on me."

"Subtleties as in lying?"

"I suppose if we were to talk openly, yes." He sipped his cup of wine. But, as he did so, I noticed his eyes constantly flicker back to his brother, and one of the girls turned back to face us. I recognized her – Princess Laena's handmaid.

"I suppose one must grow accustomed to lying in King's Landing…" I feigned a smile, examining the girl. She wasn't as womanly as myself. No finery, no great beauty – I doubt she could please a man as well as I was rumoured to. But, she seemed to hold the affection of Viserys. My husband. My Dragon.

"Aeron's… different." Viserys said eventually. "I'll look in his eyes, and it's like there's a storm raging inside of them. And he's never let it slip out. Not once."

"Let what slip out?"

"Draegor used to be much more arrogant. He was never spiteful… but he didn't think too much about how other people felt. Mother never liked Aeron for… obvious reasons, but Laena has long hated him. And she's not the type to do anything quietly."

I nodded, looking to see Laena's dark-haired handmaiden smile at Viserys. "I shall return in a moment. Allow me to just greet the Princess as a sister." I curtsied as Viserys stood up and bowed his head, and I walked down to Laena, embracing her with a hug.

"Sister!" I called, "I look forward to all the time we shall spend together!"

"Yes, quite." Laena tried to hide it, but I could see her wrinkle her nose. I turned towards her handmaiden – up close, I could see the golden hoops and rings covering her ears. I need no introduction – we'd all heard of Ashriel Tyrell, who gilded her ears in lieu of marrying an elderly Lord.

"Laena," Visenya appeared beside her sister, "Ser Richard is refusing to show me his sword!" She wrapped an arm around the Kingsguard's neck, spilling a bit of wine onto his golden pauldron. "I am your princess," She purred in Ser Richard's ear, "and I _command_ you to show me the sword of the Rising Star."

"When you say his sword…" Laena raised an eyebrow, and Visenya only smiled, causing Ser Richard to turn a deep shade of violet. Laena was even worse, spluttering and looking around to distract herself. Visenya chuckled and removed her arm from Ser Richard.

"Calm yourself Laena… I wouldn't embarrass our newest sister like that." Visenya approached me, and kissed me on the cheek. "Welcome to the fold, Princess."

As we all began to part, I reached out, gently grabbing Ashriel's arm. "I know you, don't I?" I asked, furrowing my brow as if I had to remember.

"I am a Lady in service of Princess Laena…"

"Tyrell, yes?"

"Yes. Ashriel, My Lady-"

"Your Grace." I corrected her. "I am a princess, now, yes?"

Ashriel's face remained unmoving like a stone until she curtsied. "Yes, Your Grace. Apologies, Your Grace." I tried to find what it was – maybe those large golden eyes? Her lithe figure? Perhaps Viserys liked little girls more than women – there were worse men around. Was she always so meek? Even in bed? "Forgive me, Your Grace, but the Princess Laena-"

"You love him, don't you?" I watched her face immediately turn to stone once more, and I knew I was right. She was too focused on not reacting, she didn't feign shock or surprise. "I don't blame you. I suppose most girls are in love with him. How could you not fall in love with a man like that?" I laughed, looking back at him, watching him hug my father and take a cup of wine. "But if anything ever happened between you, it will never happen again. He's mine."

"Congratulations, Your Grace." Ashriel said, unsmiling. "May the Seven bless your union and any children you may have."

"Ask them to bless your own union." I informed her. "Maybe there's a gangly fourth-born with gilded ears somewhere close by." I put on a smile before walking back to my wedding table, passing the Lady Delyth, who moved to squeal excitedly to her sister.

 **Aeron Targaryen – King's Landing, the Red Keep**

I watched Delyth skip to her sister, making no efforts to hide her excitement. It was to be expected – the poor girl wanted to be a princess so desperately, she could barely believe her luck. She was clearly the sort of woman that was prone to flights of fancy, but she would do me well as a bride. Better than the other Tyrell daughter, who still called me 'bastard'. I moved towards Draegor's table, sitting down next to him.

"What a wonderful affair…" I murmured, "do you suppose mine will be as expensive?" It was only then that I remembered Draegor's… affliction. "Sorry… I didn't mean to-"

"It's fine." Draegor sighed, "It's the little comments that you don't pay attention to. Those are the ones that I hate the most."

"Apologies." I bowed my head, and then realised how stupid it was to be doing so.

"How does our new sister look?"

"Haylise is a beauty, Draegor." I informed him. "Waves of Baratheon-black hair like a waterfall, with chains of gold like silk woven into her hair like a web-"

"Aeron Targaryen: the Bastard of the Red Keep, and Dragon poet." Draegor laughed – a sound I hadn't heard for too long. "I'm pleased for Viserys."

"It's alright to be jealous, Draegor."

"I'm not jealous."

"Not very knightly to lie." I noticed Draegor's hand fumbling around for his wine, and eventually grabbed it for him, placing it in his shaking hand. "He's a young man, loved by his people with a beautiful young wife, and you're marrying Laena." Draegor grinned as I spat her name out. "You've both taken a sword to the eye, but Viserys yet still holds his sight. Of course you're jealous."

"You love this, don't you Aeron?" Draegor drank from his cup of wine, "Playing the Game."

"You don't?"

"I do not play the Game, Aeron."

"The Great Game…" I smiled, "we're all playing the Game, Draegor. Most of you just don't realise it yet." I looked over to the smiling Bold Viserys, then to the frowning Blind Draegor. "You're next-in-line. You may not have your sight, but you have your birthright. Now you can learn to rule, and stop with all your silliness about knights."

"A lot of responsibility…" Draegor nodded.

"Not without possibility. You could shape the realm to be anything you wish it to be."

"Is that a touch of envy I hear, Aeron?" Draegor asked.

"We were raised in King's Landing; isn't it only natural to want power? Any true Targaryen would…"

"And how long have you been a true Targaryen, Aeron?"

I hesitated before sipping my wine, caught off-guard by this comment. "Long enough, brother." I placed my goblet back on the table. "Do you think I would ever by accepted?"

"As a King?"

"As a Targaryen."

"By the people?"

"By everyone." Draegor hung his head as he debated my question. He didn't need to say any more – I knew what this meant. "After all these years, you still refuse to call me brother…"

"Aeron, this is not the time-"

I stood up, taking his goblet of wine and leaning down so only he could hear me, "Remember that it was you who did this to me." I snarled, and turned away to leave.

 **Haylise Baratheon – King's Landing, The Red Keep**

I sat at my wedding table, watching Viserys bow and exchange a cup of wine with Lord Addam Lannister. Too much of a peacock for myself, and I had a sorry history with rowdy young men. So, I elected to remain at my table and drink the finest Arbor gold.

To my right, sat a great beauty indeed: sharp features and pale skin, with that Targaryen silver hair winding down to her waist. She was wrapped in rubies and scarlet scales over her dress, and those beautiful violet eyes danced around the room. Vysella was truly a beauty. And I was happy that Viserys took after her instead of his father. In more than just looks.

"I suppose it is quite strange for you," Vysella smiled, "being surrounded by a great many people you don't know. It can be quite intimidating, I know."

"I'm not intimidated, Your Grace-"

"Please, I won't have a daughter call me such a title." She smiled. "Your mother died quite recently, no?"

"Yes, Your Gr- mother," I caught myself, "three years ago."

"Death rarely comes at an expected time." Vysella informed me. "Neither does marriage I suppose." She leant over, and wrapped my black hair around one of her pale fingers, "I wonder if my grandchildren will have your beautiful black hair…"

"I- I don't know, Your- mother." I smiled, honestly flattered that such a beauty and a legend was paying me compliments and asking me to call her 'mother'.

"I suppose we will find out soon enough." She sipped her cup of wine again.

I paused before responding. The question had long been on my mind. The topic of children. While bearing a Targaryen babe was the highest honour a woman in my position could achieve, I didn't feel too confident about the rumours regarding Targaryen madness. "How soon is soon?"

"Well, I expect you shall make your attempts tonight." Vysella sighed into her cup. "Don't worry, little deer. Being a mother is a life of happiness, but also one of misery. You see, you can't have one without the other. You will have sons and daughters. You will watch them smile when they open their eyes, and you will weep when they close them forever." There was something about the way she spoke – the way her eyes glistened with tears of an honest woman. It was like she wasn't here with me; no, she was somewhere else.

"Your Grace?" I placed a hand on hers, "Mother?"

"Some decades ago, I had a baby boy. He would have been Laena's elder brother. Rhaegon agreed he should be born on Dragonstone, where he would belong. I can still see him now: his little hands clasping for mine, those big beautiful eyes…"

"He passed on?"

Vysella nodded, "You never stop being a mother, you know. Even when they're gone."

 **Delyth Tyrell – King's Landing, The Red Keep**

Ashriel was quieter than she had ever been before. I mean, she usually had her head shoved into her stupid big books, but she looked like she wasn't even interested! Always thinking about herself, as usual!

"Ash! You aren't even listening!"

"What?" She groaned.

"Aeron's asked me to take the air with him!" I couldn't contain myself. "He's quite striking, isn't he? That Targaryen hair-"

"He isn't a real Targaryen, Delyth." Ashriel stated, "He's natural-born, remember?"

"He is not!" I stamped my foot down. "You'd be calling the King a liar!" Ashriel rolled her eyes, but I decided not to take this to heart. Father said Ashriel must be jealous of me, so it was up to me to be the more mature one. "Do you think our children will have the silver hair as well?"

"I don't know…" Ashriel sighed.

"What about eyes? And what about the dragons? Will our children get to ride dragons also?"

"I suppose?"

"Ash! It's like you don't even care-" Before I could finish speaking, I saw him approach. Gods, he was a far better match than Dalton Tarly or Holdyn Redwyne. He was like Aegon re-born, with his rubies and silks. "Wish me luck!" I couldn't stop myself squealing as I came closer to Aeron.

"My Lady." He bowed his head.

"Your Grace." I curtsied, before wrapping my arm around his.

"I trust you are enjoying the celebrations."

"Of course, Your Grace," I kept my voice level, "I wonder if our wedding will be like this."

"Would you like it to be?"

"I'd prefer some more honeycomb…" I tried to think about what else was wrong with this wedding, "and… I should like a bigger band. And a different dress for the feast, after the ceremony of course-"

"Whatever you want, My Lady, you shall receive." Aeron gave a smile of stunning white teeth, and clasped my hands with his own. "I trust you know I shall try to make you happy."

"Of course, Your Grace." I could feel my cheeks burning red.

"And, if you are to be my wife, I must trust you in all matters." He cupped my hand – his skin was so smooth and un-calloused. Like a true ruler's. "Can I trust you Delyth?"

 **Lyra Lannister – King's Landing, The Red Keep**

I hadn't seen Haylise so happy. She had been tolerating the laughs and jibes for years now. But, now no-one dared so a word against her. She was married to the youngest Prince, and also the most beloved.

At the corner of the room, I saw the adorable little Ryleigh. A head of Baratheon-black curls. He was scrawny for his age; no matter how long the tailors toiled, the clothes always hung off of him like he was a skeleton. He looked very little like his father, who was tall and domineering. Ryleigh was a sweetheart, with those cute little freckles and big blue eyes. His clothes were relatively simple for the brother of the bride – Only Ryleigh would take advantage of a wedding to wear what he wanted to.

"The best thing about this wedding," I sat down next to him, "is that they'll let you wear whatever you want."

"Lyra!" Ryleigh smiled, "I was hoping I'd see a familiar face."

"What about Haylise?"

Ryleigh looked over to his sister, who sat by the queen, sipping wine in deep conversation. "She's occupied."

"I hear you're to be equally occupied." I smiled. "A new mother, a new brother…"

"Oh, Evalyn Stark?" Ryleigh shrugged. "I don't know…"

"You don't know about what? She's a year less than you, from the North, daughter of Bennard and Margareth-"

"No, I know all that." Ryleigh squirmed in his chair, "I'm just not… sure."

"That's understandable. No doubt Evalyn feels the same way." Ryleigh smiled. I suppose it must have felt nice to know neither of them wanted this match. I looked over at the giggles to see my dim-witted, boyish cousin, Addam, with his arms around two serving girls. "Excuse me, Ryleigh, but I think Addam needs a word with his uncle…" I stood up, glancing around to see where my father was.

 **Viserys Targaryen – King's Landing, The Red Keep**

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't enjoying myself. True, I wouldn't have picked Haylise to be my wife, but the celebrations at the feast where lively enough. Streaks of Targaryen scarlet and Baratheon gold ribbons flew through the air. We were both presented with gifts: Aeron had commissioned a tome of all the lords of Dragonstone. Laena had given me a tarp of our family (though Aeron was suspiciously absent). Draegor found his way to me, and presented me with a jewelled chalice that depicted my victory against the Ironborn. Visenya had presented us with our wedding pie, the size of a small horse. Haylise and I laughed as I unsheathed my blade and severed the top of the pie and watched the doves flitter out and scatter into the air.

As my eyes trailed after the doves, I saw Ashriel starting to walk away. I quickly made my excuses to Haylise and jogged across the gardens to Ashriel.

"Ashriel, I…" I paused, as Lords began to pass us, "I was wondering where you were going."

"I'm retiring to my quarters, Your Grace," she kept her red eyes fixed on the floor, "I'm tired."

"But… you haven't stayed for the pie. Or the-"

"I wish to leave before the bedding ceremony, if it pleases Your Grace."

I nodded. True, I hadn't thought of that. "Of course. You must be very tired."

"Your Grace?" Ashriel quickly wiped her eye with a finger, "When will you leave for Dragonstone?"

"I'm not too sure, Lady Ashriel." I wanted to wrap my arms around her, mount Moonfyre and just leave this all behind. I didn't want to stay here and be married to Haylise. I didn't want to wear golden chains for the rest of my life. "When my family commands me to."

"May the Seven bless your union, Your Grace." Ashriel's large, golden eyes flickered up to fix on my own. "I'm sure she loves you very much."

"I'm sure." I nodded, remembering each small freckle. Every glimmer of the gold on her ears. Every small, precious, insignificant detail.

And then she left.

"Come!" I heard Lord Rylon call, "Come, to the Bedding Ceremony!" The crowd cheered, and I knew that this was my duty. There was no escaping it. All I could do in that moment was be a good, faithful husband to Haylise. My wife.

 **Damn that chapter was long… I kept thinking 'Oh, I haven't really shown this character…' and wrote a little POV about them and it ended up at 4,000 words. I think I mentioned every character but Rhaegon, for obvious reasons. Please leave a review and let me know what you think!**

 **ALSO, after this 'instalment', I'll get straight to work on the next one. I've created a community I'll post the stories in, so they'll be easy to find.**

 **I need a Lord Bolton because next, we're going back to the Dreadfort! But, it seems Rickard has a new captor…**


	13. The Iron Flayer

**Hey guys, guess what, it's my birthday! This chapter's quite short, but it's more just to introduce another character. I didn't really know how to end it so I just sorta did this. Anyway, I still haven't accepted a Lord Bolton, so I've tried to be quite vague about him. If I don't receive one, I guess I'll make a Lord Bolton.**

 **Now then, let's see how Rickard's doing…**

 **Rickard of Crofters – The North, The Dreadfort**

Gods, I wanted sleep. I hadn't slept in so long. But if I did, the Bolton woman would come again. I was terrified of what she would do if I closed my eyes. She was here, somewhere, watching me. In the shadows, like the demon she was.

The door creaked open, and I began to struggle against my binds again. My wrists were rubbed raw, but I summoned all my strength to try and fight off the woman. And there was no woman. Instead, there was a man.

He dressed like no other northerner. No other main-lander, at all. No, he was clad in leather armour, like an Ironborn soldier. His jaw and scalp were shaved bare, leaving only the pale white skin, and those unsettling grey eyes. Not like the Starks, deep and dark like the wolf's. His eyes were hard and pale, like twin pebbles from the Stony Shore.

"Rickard!" The man smiled, pulling on a line of rope, "My sister was telling me all about you. She said you're a man who knows pain." He pulled out a knife, identical to the one the Bolton woman used, "I've decided to see what her words are worth."

Before I could start to attempt to struggle against my bonds, a woman entered the chamber, carrying a plate of bacon, blood sausage and bread. No, not a woman, not yet. A girl. She could have only been thirteen or so – I'd reckon she hadn't bled yet. She was lithe and blonde. At least, I could tell she used to be. Now, her hair was closer to white, and the wet white dress she wore clung to the jutting bones of her body.

"You are a lovely little girl, aren't you?" He flickered his eyes and up down her, grabbing her wrist before she could leave. "What's your name?"

"Lily."

"Lily!" He cut into his sausage and began to noisily chomp. "Meet Rickard. Rickard, Lily." Lily's eyes flickered up to me, and the man's chomping silenced. He pointed his knife at her, "Curtsy." The girl scrambled to do so, and his chomping continued. "Rickard should bow but… well, he's a little tied up at the moment." He continued to chew his pork while examining me. "Gods, you are an ugly fellow, aren't you!" He sniggered. "You look like a little rat… Rickard the Rat! There's one for the songs!" He let out a few more gasps of laughter, shook his head and continued to cut the sausage. "Do you sing Lily?"

"I don't… not really M'Lord-"

"Sing the Rat a song, Lily."

"Don't." I managed to grunt. The girl looked up at me, eyes wide like coins. I shook my head to her.

"Wha… don't?" The man chuckled in disbelief, "Don't?" Now he was actually amused. "Of course. I just named you the Rat; It's your name day. You get whatever you want. So, let's see what you think," he grabbed the belt from his breeches, and began to tie it over my mouth, "of lovely little Lily's voice." He pointed his knife at the girl and twirled towards the wall opposite me. She walked over and stood there, eyes flitting back and forth.

"What should I-"

"Wait. For me. To. Sit." The man ordered, knife pointed at her. He sat down, and gently gestured for her to start singing. She opened her mouth, and a delicate and brittle voice emerged. I recognized the song. _The Winter Maid_. A sad song. The girl would flinch and her voice would waver when the man stabbed his food. As her eyes began to travel across my bloodied arm, tears started to swell in her eyes.

When the girl finished singing, her voice was fragile and cracked, trying to withhold the tears that escaped her eyes and raced frantically down her cheeks, as if they wanted as far away from that scarred and beaten body as soon as possible. She stood there in front of me, eyes cast down upon the ground before closing at the sound of the man's rambunctious applause.

"Wonderful!" He nodded, still chewing his pork, "wonderful, didn't you think so?" He asked me. I tried to say no, to shake my head - I wanted him to let her go. She was a child. "N...no? You didn't like little Lily's song?" He stood up, turning back to face me before turning to the girl, a toothy smile cracked across his shorn skin, "Well, it is your nameday," he stood up from the table, picking up that thin blade, "and you get whatever you want on your nameday..." he turned back to the girl, who started to back away, shaking her hair, letting out panicked yells of fear. He grabbed her arms, lashing her against the wall with leather bindings before turning back to me.

"What do you say, little wolf," He raised an eyebrow, "tongue?" He clinked the knife against her crooked mouth. "Teeth?" I shook my head. The Flayer furrowed his brows, looking around for someone to explain why I was saying no. "What, then, tits?" He slapped the flat side of the blade against the girl's breasts, emitting a sharp squeal from her. Eventually, the Flayer's smile fractured his mouth again. "Oh," he chuckled, "oh, that is a lot to ask for! You are being greedy today, aren't you?"

I began to realise what he was talking about as he grabbed the hem of her dress, cutting it open with the knife. I began to let out as much sound as the leather gag would let me. The Flayer turned his sickly eyes across the girl's bare body before looking back at me. "Well, alright - it is your nameday after all! Besides," He turned back to the girl, flourishing the blade, "you were done using your cunt anyway. Weren't you?"

 **Theodosia Bolton – The North, The Dreadfort**

I enjoyed watching people eat. It tells you a lot about a person. The way they hold their knife, cut their food, the combinations. In our hall, my brother Raff, my father and I all sat in silence, except for Raff's loud chewing and slurping of ale. Raff's face would flicker back into sight with the dancing flames. Raff raised his tankard aloft for one of the serving girls to re-fill it. I wonder if anyone would notice if I switched out the pork with human flesh.

"…Lords Umber and Flint will be here in the fortnight," Raff said between mouthfuls of food, "and Locke, Hornwood and Manderly will march on Winterfell with us."

"Lord Umber is coming here?" Father spoke from the head of the table. Raff nodded. "What about the Karstarks?"

"I've sent a raven to Sigurd Greyjoy," Raff explained, "he'll send twenty longboats to take Karhold."

"Good." Father nodded. "Very good. And the Stark scout in the cells?"

"Oh," Raff beamed and chuckled, "he doesn't know anything."

"Then why is he still alive?"

"My own personal amusement?" Raff giggled. There was a lull, as Raff looked to father, whose lips were a thin line, and his eyes bored into Raff.

"I am not laughing." Father stated. "I gave Greyjoy a boy and expected a man to return. But no…" he sighed, "again with the games…" I liked looking at Raff. The raw skin on his knuckles stretching as his fist clenched. The physical reaction to a verbal action.

"If I have displeased you, father-" Raff began.

"Kill the bloody Starks. Then I will coddle you." Father stood up. He turned to me. "Where is your mother?"

"Drawing." I plastered on a smile as father grumbled. "Father? The Stark scout was journeying to Last Hearth."

"To the Umbers?"

"It clearly means wheels are turning." I stated. "The Starks will move to take Hornwood. It's the closest keep, and they can rally the Cerwyns-"

"Thea," Raff smiled, "this isn't the war room."

"Clearly not. A woman would never be allowed in there. Hence why we're talking about this now."

"Father has entrusted me to lead the forces. I have secured the Ironborn-"

"I don't wish to bicker Raff." I leant back in my chair, simpering into my cup of wine, "It's unbecoming." Raff was a raging ball of emotion. It was fun to do this every now and then. Play with him and pull at the strands.

"Take after your sister." Father want to move past us, but lingered for a moment next to me. "If only you had been born a man." He chuckled, and continued to exit the hall. Raff gripped his fork.

"You still get so upset with me playing with your toys…" Raff chuckled to himself.

"Lily was mine." I stated. "Now I have to find someone else for the hunt."

"What about Rickard the Rat?" Raff let out a scoff with a smile. I rolled my eyes at his imaginative naming.

"I already hunted him. He'll stay in the dungeons until I tire of him."

"Well," Raff leant back in his chair, picking his nails with his thin flaying blade, "these hunts sound fun. You don't mind if I join?"

"Of course not," I shook my head, "as long as you arrange our quarry."

Raff laughed, "Cross my heart."

 **I know – a little bit of a short update. I hope you guys enjoyed this as much as you could. Next chapter is in Winterfell. Also, we've only got another handful of chapters in this 'instalment'. Like… six or something. But, I'll get to work on the next one straight off.**


	14. Cold Winds Rising

**So, I've decided to create the Lord Bolton – Rass Bolton.**

 **Tylan Stark – Winterfell, The North**

I had been playing with the latest pup, who the kennelmaster had let me name. I hadn't hesitated to name him "Cub". He was the youngest of the pack, but he would bark and try to bite the other dogs that barked at him. He was like me. Cub was small, with shaggy dark fur and brown eyes. I scratched his ears, and let him lick my hands.

"Tylan." I turned around to see Markas walking towards me. Markas looked different. He wore a big heavy cloak with wolf fur. His brown curly hair was combed, and his wolf eyes were too serious. He looked like father. Except for the hair.

"What?"

Markas looked around at all the commonfolk that came through the doors. "Let's go inside."

"Can Cub come too?"

"Cub?" Markas smiled, looking to Cub. "What sort of a name is that?"

"A wolf's name!"

Markas chuckled. "I suppose that's true." He slapped his thigh, and Cub leapt up towards him.

"You shouldn't do that, Mark."

"Why not? He's a hound, isn't he?"

"He's a wolf!" I insisted.

"Aye, you're right. A wolf like you." Markas ruffled my hair. We entered the Hall, where Markas leant against the Lord's table, facing me. "Tylan, I've got news for you."

"Bad news?"

"No, just news." He took off his gloves. "I've decided I'm marching East tonight. To fight the Boltons."

"We're marching?" I beamed. I knew the big Mormont said I could squire for him, but I didn't think I actually would! I'd finally be given a proper sword and a big wolf's cloak like Markas and father! "I promise, I won't let you down Mark! I've been practicing with edged blades, and I'm getting better at riding-"

"Tylan," Markas shook his head, "you're not coming."

"What?"

"You're to stay here with mother."

"But I'm ready! Mormont said I could be his squire-"

Markas cut me off by holding the back of my neck and leaning down to me, "There must always be a Stark in Winterfell." He informed me. I could see it in his eyes. He was keeping something from me.

"You're not coming back, are you?" I took a step backwards, "First Finn, then father, then Evie, now-"

"Evie will be back, Tylan. I'm coming back. But mother needs you." Markas placed a hand on my shoulder, "You're to be Lord of Winterfell while I'm at war. Can you do that for me?" I nodded, without question. "Remember, winter is coming. And we need to be ready for it when it does."

 **Margareth Stark – Winterfell, The North**

The stonemason had finished the likeness of Ben in the crypt. It was good that he was laid to rest here, next to his ancestors. His hair was lighter than my own, but his eyes were infinitely darker. Filled with the responsibility all Starks were weighted with. A strong jaw… Gods, I could still remember the first time I met him. I was only a child, seeing him spar with my brother, Gyll. He was still young and rowdy then. Not unlike how Markas used to be.

"I thought I'd find you down here." Markas walked down the crypt towards me. He was a sight, wearing a cloak just like Ben. He had my Mormont mother's dark bear hair, and eyes that were a mix of my pale flint-grey and his father's midnight-black.

"I wanted to make sure they got it right." I turned back to the likeness. "You look a lot like him, you know. Apart from your eyes and hair."

"Not like Finn." Markas nodded. I couldn't help but shudder in memory of that foul boy. A knave if one ever walked in Winterfell, "You still wrinkle your nose like you've been served something foul." Markas muttered.

"I will not tolerate that boy's name in my keep, in front of my husband's bones-"

"He was my father. And Finn may have been a bastard, but the same blood flows in his veins-"

"That with the blood of a traitor." I refused to look at Markas when talking about the bastard. There was a long silence as Markas faced the likeness as well, gritting his jaw, just like Ben used to when he was in thought. "Evie still writes to him."

"Evie barely knew him." I scoffed. "He made her cry more times than he didn't."

"Mother…"

"He was exiled. She misses him, but she doesn't know him! It's not right-"

"Not right?" Markas turned towards me, voice raising in disbelief. "What's not right is when Evie followed me around all day, crying, asking when her brother is coming home!"

" _You_ are her brother-"

"Aye, as is Finn!"

"Don't you raise your voice at me." I commanded him. "You may be Lord of Winterfell, but you are my son. And _he_ started all of this." I shook my head, trying to explain it to him. "The first time I came here, I was so happy. I'd met your father when my brother, Gyll, was fostered here. I was so anxious… I'd heard so much about him. But when I came here, I saw him, with that baby boy in his arms…" I took a quivering breath to contain my anger, "you've heard the stories about Rass Bolton, yes? What he did to his sister?" Markas was silent now. "It could have been Rass Bolton as easily as it could have been your father…"

"Mother, stop." Markas growled. "He is father's son. It doesn't matter who his mother was; he is _my_ brother."

"And what a brother he was." I took a handful of seconds to regain my composure, and embody my title: The Lady of Stone.

"We march on the Dreadfort tonight."

"I'll inform Lord Mormont to gather the troops, and serve as your representative…"

"There's no need. I intend to represent myself."

I could not maintain my façade now. I snapped my neck around to face him. "Markas, there are men more experienced than you…"

"And how many of them are called Stark?"

"I will not stand by and watch another one of my children leave me." I declared, keeping my voice steady. I'd nearly lost Markas once before, and I would not go through something like that again.

"I'm not the child I was," Markas told me, "I can protect myself now."

"You're barely a man." I turned back to look at Ben. It was that whore Maryana, preying on his tendencies. She should've taken her bastard and gone back to the Dreadfort all those years ago.

"I want you to stay here."

"You need me-"

"Tylan needs you." Markas grabbed my arm, making me face him, "He's ten. He doesn't understand any of this. The Ironborn have been gone from our shores for well over a decade. He didn't hurt me." Markas removed his hand. "You can't protect me forever. Cerwyn… Glover, they see me as you do: a child. Mother," I turned to face him this time, "this is something I need to do as father did." I stared to notice the stubble breaking across his jaw.

"I can't believe my boy shaves now…" I chuckled, running a hand across his chin. I then wrapped my arms around his neck. "Kill them all, my son."

 **Again, just another short update, as this is a set-up instalment. There's only 5 more chapters of this by the way, so… yeah, that's how close we're coming to shit hitting the fan.**

 **Next chapter is back in King's Landing, and it's called '** _ **Pride of the Lioness**_ **', and it'll be up… soon-ish I guess? After this story, I'm going to jump back onto** _ **Life is Strange: Corvus Lupus**_ **because I've kept everyone waiting, and there's only 5 more chapters left of that.**

 **I've got coursework due in over the next two weeks or so, so I've gotta start giving those my focus since I've done nothing… and it's my last year of university… hopefully.**

 **Anyhoo – remember to submit those Essosi(?) when you can, along with some more Northern bannerman, and I'll take a Lord Lannister.**


	15. A Lioness in the Gardens

**Sorry about the gap in updating. See, I've come up with a schedule – after I finish this story, the priority is Life is Strange: Corvus Lupus, and then I'll work on the next instalment of this.**

 **Also, I'm going to re-start Assassin's Creed: Unite sometime soon, so if you're interested ping me a message.**

 **Delyth Tyrell – the Red Keep, King's Landing, the Crownlands**

"…And we'll need pigeon pie – just like the one Visenya made for Viserys!" I smiled. Marrying a Prince… a fine-looking Prince like Aeron, at that. I could imagine Kathryn Redwyne squirming at the idea. She always thought she was so pretty – pursued by Cedrick Hightower and Lancion Florent alike. I couldn't wait for her to see me in my dress…

"Visenya didn't _make_ the cake." Aeron pulled at the cuffs of his shirt.

"Well, she ordered it," I giggled, "anyway, will we be staying in King's Landing?"

"Yes, I believe so. Rylon will want me to serve on the Small Council, no doubt. Sitting at the leg of the table, savouring the scraps…" He sighed bitterly, kicking a pebble off of the battlements and into the dark water of Blackwater Bay below.

"Aeron?"

"Nothing," he shook his head, "I suppose we'll stay here for a few years yet before we travel to Highgarden..." As he spoke, I realized – as Princess, I could arrange the marriages of the other girls! Marry off Kathryn to some toad fifth-born…

"Ooh!" I tugged on his arm, "Who can I betroth Lusia to?"

"Lusia?" He furrowed his brow in confusion.

"Aeron, I told you," I groaned, "Lusia is my handmaiden back in Highgarden."

"Oh… Delyth, it's usually the father who handles the arrangements for his daughter…"

"But, who cares? I'll be a princess!"

"Princes and Princesses don't have power." Aeron gritted his teeth, "Only the trueborn Targaryens…"

"Who cares about them? The only nice ones are Viserys and Visenya…" I paused, as Aeron raised an eyebrow, "I'm talking about the trueborn. Besides," I wrapped my arms around his, holding him close, "I just want my match first."

Aeron let out a chuckle, "Alright, little flower, we'll betroth your friend, Lusia."

"And Gabielle?"

"Yes, Gabielle too…" Aeron nodded, "Maybe even Ashriel as well."

"Ashriel?" I asked, removing my arm from his.

"Yes. She's to be my sister, I should do my part for her." Aeron stated.

"Yes, but…" I tried to find an excuse. I loved Ashriel, with all my heart, and I wanted her to be happy, but she didn't deserve a match like I did. It was only fair – I was a good daughter, and I always did what father said. Ashriel, on the other hand, was more rebellious, and raised our father's ire.

"But?" Aeron leant against the ramparts.

"But not a Great House." I insisted. "And, somewhere in the Reach, so she can visit!"

"I'll make a suggestion to your father." Aeron nodded. "Unless, of course, he dies before he can make the match…" There was something off-putting about how casually Aeron mused about this. He didn't seem to be upset or scared – he simply just pondered aloud. I felt terrified at the idea of my father dying, leaving mother alone. It seemed as though, for some reason, Ashriel would never be able to return home should that happen…

It must have been clear what I was feeling from my face, because Aeron broke into a laugh, "Don't fret. I would never dream of doing something like that to your father. He's been nothing but respectful and lordly towards me." With each word, I felt a wave of reassurance wash over me. "The world is a cruel place, and everyone dies before they plan to, but I'd not think to do that to your father."

I looked up at the butterfly that fluttered it's wings, scattering across the air, "But would you do that to someone else?" I looked back to Aeron, whose eyes were locked on mine, his lip curling.

"Now you're learning to think the right way."

 **Visenya Targaryen – Rhaenys' Hill, King's Landing, the Crownlands**

I waved to the smallfolk, bidding them goodbye. Viserys and Haylise did the same, beside me. They walked arm-in-arm, Viserys adorning his usual scarlet and ebony garb, though Haylise still wore golden antlers that wrapped around her waist with a golden dragon. I couldn't help but smile at this – she was a woman I welcomed into the family. To be frank, I found the whole marriage of the two of them disheartening; Viserys was kind-hearted, and I knew him. If we had wed like we were originally arranged to, I would have rested happy knowing we'd be together on Dragonstone, instead of being sent off somewhere to marry.

I wondered where Rylon would send me. I'd heard that Ryleigh Baratheon was to wed a Stark girl, so I wouldn't be sent off to the Stormlands. The match between Aeron and Delyth meant I wouldn't marry some handsome fool from the Reach either. That left the Westerlands, the Riverlands, the Vale and the North. Well, I wouldn't be married to a simple-minded Northerner, and I hated fish. The Westerlands, at least, was the richest region. And the Vale was full of chivalrous knights – men after Viserys' own heart. Yes, I suppose they would do well.

"Do you have to go, Visenya?" Haylise asked me. "I had hoped to you would stay longer…"

"I'm sure I'll be back before long," I held out a hand, watching Sunfyre descend from the clouds, "Viserys made need saving when mother starts asking where her grandchildren are."

"She seemed lovely."

"That's because you didn't grow up with her." I sniggered and pointed at Viserys, "Do you remember how she raved when she found out we'd stolen the jam from the kitchens?"

"Gods, she was livid," Viserys told his wife, "the whole thing wasn't even my idea."

"Of course, noble Viserys always led astray by his devilish sister… Besides," I sighed, "Aeron's wedding will be soon. And I would never miss that."

"Of course… can you imagine Aeron with a wife?"

"She seems to love the finery as much as he does," I rolled my eyes, "I couldn't have dreamt up a better wife for him." Truth be told, Delyth Tyrell was the perfect match for him. Just as she was now to inherit instead of her older sister, Aeron was in the line of succession where he shouldn't have been. Aeron was a charming man, and had never shown me any contempt. In fact, we had been closer than I had been to Draegor. And whereas Laena turned arrogant and hot-tempered, Aeron always stayed composed. Though there was something about him. Something bubbling below the surface. And that was because, regardless of what our father had said, he was still a bastard. He wasn't a Targaryen. Not really. He never could be.

"Rylon will be securing your match soon," Viserys stated, "I think he wants to get it out of the way before he gets too old."

"True… and sadly, Draegor's crowning will be soon." I sighed. Viserys bowed his head as well. We didn't have the same memories as our siblings about our parents. True, Laena and I had been treasured by our mother. But, as I grew older, I began to notice other things. Like, how father would laugh and smile more around Aeron than Draegor or Viserys. Or, how mother wouldn't be able to smile around Laena after the maid had set fire to her bed. Then, Draegor was blinded, and everyone suddenly stopped being a family. Everyone but Viserys. "Haylise, sister, it was lovely to meet you," I embraced her, "and I shall see you soon. I'm sure Viserys will bring you to Dragonstone…"

"I'd like nothing more." Haylise embraced me back before pulling backwards into a polite curtsy. She may have been Haylise the Ruined, but there was no denying how delightful the girl was.

"Viserys, visit often and stay well." I embraced him as well.

"You too, sister." He hugged me tightly.

Sunfyre landed just in front of my hand, stamping his feet onto the grass and let out a screech. I noticed Haylise clamp onto Viserys' arm. She'd learn in time. After all, she had her own dragon now.

 **Lyra Lannister – the Red Keep, King's Landing, the Crownlands**

Gods, Delyth Tyrell irritated me. It was worse than being dim-witted and dull, she was actually grating. With her shrill shrieks and squeals. What use was a little girl like that? She'd probably just pop out a few sprogs and obey her husband in all matters. That wasn't the life I'd live. No, someday, I'd find a sword, and I'd only marry a man who would spar with me.

People often said swords were for men, and poison was for women. Our weapons ranged from our tears to the one between our legs. Me? I'd happily choose the sword, and show them just how skilled a woman could be with a blade.

I watched Delyth prance about with Aeron. He was a fool as well. A peacock, parading himself around like a prize. Gods, he made my blood boil… He reminded me of my father in many ways; He walked like the roads were paved for him, and talked with such light-hearted laughter that you'd think there were no deep thoughts in his head. He was putting it on – he must have been. How could anyone remain that cavalier and joyful when they're eternally shit on by their family?

I resisted the urge to retch at the two of them, and quickly ducked behind a hedge. I was about to creep away from the gardens, and back into the keep, only I saw two figures at the end of the nearest corridor. One wore a golden cloak of chainmail – the City Watch, clearly. The other man he spoke to bore some familiarity; red hair, big build… and the armour of the Kingsguard. Ser Mikal Drake, I remembered. He handed him a purse – one that looked to be bursting with gold dragons. I'd grown up in Casterly Rock – I knew a bribe when I saw one. But why was a Knight of the Kingsguard paying a goldcloak?

As Ser Mikal turned to look towards me, I quickly moved away, going to look over the Blackwater Bay. Before I could check to see if I was being followed, a screech was heard overhead as a dragon, emerald and green scales glimmering in the sun, plunged down suddenly towards the water, it's beating wings splashing into the water.

"Easy, My Lady." I turned around to see one of the silver-armoured Kingsguard there. A chestnut beard, and dark eyes that peeked out under his helm. He rested a hand on the hilt of a Greatsword, which had a golden star painted onto the pommel.

"What?"

"The dragons," He gestured with a hand, "they're even-tempered enough… as long as you keep your distance."

I scoffed. What would he know about dragons? I mean, true, he lived in King's Landing. And he was a Kingsguard. But what would he know? "Who are you?"

The man removed his helm, revealing a much younger face than I'd expected. Dark hair cropped short and darker skin. He was a Dornishman. I immediately remembered the jokes that the house guards of Storm's End told about Dornishmen… Even now, I couldn't look at him without thinking about shaved goats and olive oil. "I am Ser Richard Dayne."

"Dayne?" I asked, dropping my smile from the jokes I had been told. Instead, I remembered the long histories of Dayne swordsmen. The Sword of the Morning. The best in the world, I'd heard. No-one could stop them. Different to the brash wolves in the North and elegant water-dancing Braavosi. Maester Ayric at Storm's End had told me that they embodied their sigil; a sword crossed with a falling star. As sure as the star falls, so will their sword, Dawn, fall upon you. And all the weight and fury of the star shall be unleashed… I have to say, I hadn't had _that_ feeling since I'd saw Ser Aran's son bathing…

"I know," Ser Richard moved past me to gaze over the horizon, "a Dornishman in King's Landing is a rare sight."

"To say the least." I nodded, "How did that come to pass?"

"Well, I presume you're familiar with my family's history?"

"The Sword of the Morning?"

"Yes, well, my father is the current Sword of the Morning. And, I'm the fourth-born," he laughed, "I have two older brothers to compete with."

"So, you came here to patrol the gardens?" I raised an eyebrow. "To be a sentry?"

"A glorified sentry." He grinned. "Well, I'd either be fighting Stormlanders and Reachmen, fighting my countrymen, or standing guard in gardens."

"You don't enjoy battle?" I scoffed.

"I can't say I've ever truly been in battle…"

"And you want to be the Sword of Morning?"

"The greatest swordsmen have been felled by a stray arrow or a charging mare." He turned to me, "I'm not rushing towards an early grave. When I die, I want it to be protecting people I know. Not fighting for people I don't."

"Well," I took a breath to steady myself, "I can't argue with that logic." I could feel the burning in my cheeks and… other areas. "Ser Richard-"

"Lady Lyra!" I turned around to see a man wrapped in scarlet approach me, clutching a scroll.

"What?" I put a hand on my hip, hissing at him. Well, he interrupted me and Ser Richard.

"A- a letter for you, My Lady." He held out the scroll tentatively and bowed his head. I took it and shooed him away, reading the letter.

"Good news, My Lady?"

"No… no the opposite…" I re-read the letter, just to make sure I hadn't misread it. No, my father was as concise as ever. The cock. I crumpled up the letter and threw it on the floor.

"My Lady?"

"Apparently, my oaf of a father has made an arrangement for me. A marriage."

"I pity the man…" I heard Ser Richard mutter with a grin, "Who is he?"

 **Well… there's a lot of secrecy in this chapter, that's for sure. The next chapter will be somewhat short, since it's primarily just to show where things are moving. It will be the last time we visit the Starks and their bannermen in this instalment. The next chapter is called 'A Pack of Wolves'.**

 **Please leave a review saying what you thought. Also, let me know who your favourite characters are. Only four more chapters left… big things are in the foreseeable future. It's going to get so Game-of-Thrones-y.**


	16. A Pack of Wolves

**So, I've just finished a deadline, and figured you'd like another update. This is the last Stark chapter of this instalment. So far, I'm planning for a total of 4 instalments if this continues to generate interest.**

 **Cedric Glover – The North**

Markas Stark was a pup: a babe still suckling at his mother's teat. And this was where our future lay? We were well and truly fucked. He'd be better served to wear one of his mother's gowns and let her don the armour and lead us into battle. We needed a Wolf to lead us, not this cowering cub.

I rode beside him, next to Cerwyn, Mormont and Reed. Mormont was a loyal bear to his master. A noble quality, loyalty. Those bloody Starks and their honour… it's a shame Markas wasn't the same as his father. He looked similar to him, though he was a little skinnier and his hair was a little darker.

Then again, Ben Stark wasn't a true northerner. He used to be, aye, back in his youth. Then he left the North to fight the Ironborn in the South. And he stayed longer, sending men to die fighting the Dornish – Stark and Bolton alike. We had no place down south; We were of the North, and the North was were we belonged. Let the milksops in the South keep their sunshine and games of court, we Northerners had home. Aye, Cerwyn was a beast, a demon on the battlefield, and Markas Stark was a little pup, but we were all Northerners. Some more than others, but every Northerner was worth twenty Southnors.

We led our troops, marching west to Castle Cerwyn. From there, we'd move to take White Harbour, then North to Hornwood. Fucking Markas Stark – we should've been marching straight to the Dreadfort. We should storm the castle and slaughter every Bolton we could find, tearing them out root and stem. Let the soldiers have Ilyana and her bitch Theodosia. Perhaps we would flay Raff Bolton – let him suffer every death he dealt us.

Then there was the demon himself that fathered the wretches. Alvar Bolton. Oathbreaker. Turncoat. He deserved death more than any of them. I'll admit, the rumours about his sister, Maryana hadn't been proven, but I was willing to wager the man had raped his own sister. The Bastard of Winterfell, Finn Snow, was probably his own. But, alas, Bennard Stark had claimed him as his own.

Ben Snow. The foolish sod. A weak wolf. He was strong once, but he placed too much belief in mercy. Northerners are hard men, free of any foolish Southern beliefs about politics. When Alvar Bolton had come knocking at the Gates of Winterfell some twenty years ago to demand the return of his sister, Benn was willing to return her due to some misplaced sense of 'honour'.

Alvar had once been a fairer man during his father's reign. He was still a Bolton, but I hadn't heard of much wrong with the man. As northerners went, he wasn't nearly as raucous as the rest of us. He was more like Ben: Calm and collected. But, just as Ben betrayed the North and travelled south to fight off a force of Ironborn, Alvar quickly became more like his own father. He was cruel and silent. Nothing like his prick of son, Raff. No, Alvar was the true Bolton: Calculating and harsh. I doubt he even cared for his own house. Alvar had one purpose, and that purpose was death.

My thoughts were cut short as Markas turned towards me.

"Lord Glover," Markas looked at the men, "how long would you recommend we rest at Castle Cerwyn?"

"A night," I replied, "though I would advise we march straight towards the Dreadfort…"

"If we attacked the Dreadfort, we'd be set upon all sides by their bannermen." Markas stated. "We'll first cut off their allies. And if we can persuade them to join our cause, we're turning his own army against him."

"Their houses are oathbreakers." Cerwyn joined our conversation. "Show them the sword or see it plunged into your back."

"That is what Alvar Bolton would do." Markas reasoned, "How can I fight against the Boltons if I would act just like them?"

"Terror is more absolute than mercy," I laughed, "did Aegon take Westeros by handing out daisy chains?"

"I am not a conquerer." Markas said firmly. "I am not here to wipe out Houses. If we can show that one house can turn against the Boltons, others will follow."

"When you're in battle, who do you want at your back? Men who have stood beside House Stark for centuries? Men who have bled for you? Who have died for your family? Or turncoats who will break faith when the enemy is at their gates?"

Markas fell silent for a moment, thinking about it. The little pup. He shouldn't be here. I should have been leading our forces. Not this boy whose only taste of combat was in fistfights as a child. He had been coddled by his mother, and had never been to battle, nor squired for a man in battle.

What a sorry collection of Starks.

 **Ichabod Cerwyn – The North**

Markas was not a capable leader. Any man could see this. I had been a ward of Cayde Stark, as had Gyll Cassel and the lecherous old sod himself, Alvar Bolton. Six Northern men, counting Bennard and his younger brother, Adyn Stark. Six Northern men, all within a decade of each other, and all different. Gyll Cassel, the Redbeard and Adyn were brawlers whose pastimes entailed whoring and drinking. All the maids would swoon at the tales of the stout Northern wolves, wild and untamed. Foolish women. Bennard Stark, Alvar Bolton and I were different. We were more reserved, focused on learning how to rule beneath Lord Cayde Stark, Lord of Winterfell, and the honourable Warden of the North. It was a shame that Bennard never learned more from him.

I was there, the day Maryana Bolton returned with Bennard from the South, holding that silent sleeping babe in her arms. Nothing like Markas or Tylan, who were squalling brats. No, the first babe in Winterfell was silent enough one would think he was dead if it wasn't for those dark eyes staring up at you.

One week later, Alvar Bolton journeyed to Winterfell. Maryana had been promised to Elryn Umber, and how can a Lord control his people when he can't control his own sister? Bennard had been arrogant in his actions – fathering a bastard with her and keeping her unwed yet housed in Winterfell. I can still see his face; full of fury once he discovered she was there, clutching a babe.

Many would say Alvar Bolton started the war, but it was Bennard who had taken his sister. Alvar threatened to call his banners and storm Winterfell unless he was returned his sister and her bastard. Regardless of what he had done, Bennard was still a Stark. Honour compelled him to act.

We talked throughout the night about what we would do. The Redbeard wanted to cut off Alvar's head and stick it on a pike for threatening war. Gyll Cassel wanted to ride home and rally his own men. Adyn Stark, the wildest of them, wanted to march to Alvar on his own and slaughter all he could find, for Adyn was the younger of the Starks, but more unpredictable and tempestuous than any I had heard of. But, Bennard was lord. He listened to me.

I bid Bennard return the girl to Alvar, lest he marry her. 'Marry the girl. Join houses with the Boltons and send the bastard to be raised at Cerwyn, between the Dreadfort and Winterfell.' But, Bennard refused to marry the woman. He kept saying it was 'too soon. Too soon to marry.' And at the mere mention of sending his bastard away, Bennard growled for me to leave, but not before declaring he would not risk war, and he would return Maryana to Alvar Bolton.

The next day, Alvar stood in the Winter town, next to Elyrn Umber, Jacke Hornwood, Chrys Manderly and Clyd Flint. We arrived, a cart pulling the body of Maryana. I was the one who had found her – hanging from the rafters above her squalling bastard. Alvar wept and howled at the skies, and once his tears had dried, his sorrow turned to anger. He demanded his sister's bastard, and Bennard refused, stating he had acknowledged the boy. And Alvar, in losing a sister (and possibly more, if one believed the rumours) so shortly after a father had also lost the last part of her. And all he had left was fury.

Alvar drew his sword and bawled at Bennard for satisfaction. But Bennard refused. Gyll and the Redbeard tried to strike, but Bennard called for peace. The wolves had bared their teeth, and all that stood between them was Bennard. But Bennard was no great warrior. And he was burdened by honour. I suppose that, in Alvar's mind, he had already been struck. Maybe it was Bennard impugning his sister's honour. Maybe it was the rage at her death, or the refusal to return her bastard. Or perhaps it was then that Alvar truly gave in to cruelty. Alvar drew his sword and struck Bennard, severing two of his fingers.

Bennard fell backwards, and as the Redbeard tried to advance on them, he still called for peace. A damned fool – once a sword has been drawn and blood has been spilled, there is no hope. Oathbreakers must die, and nothing Bennard said could have changed that. True, Gyll, the Redbeard and I were sworn by oath to heed his commands.

But Adyn was a Stark. And, as such, he had inherited the arrogance. Perchance, he was truly mad. A boy of nineteen, drew his sword and marched towards Alvar, against the protests of his older brother. 'If he seeks blood, he has found it.' Alvar had responded that the boy had done him no wrong, and that his grievance was with Bennard. But Adyn was too young to understand politics and courtesy. He pointed his sword at the man, and called him craven. Bennard had begged for his brother to put his sword up, but Adyn declared Alvar a 'sister-fucking cunt'. But it was when Adyn informed Alvar that Maryana hanged herself to escape his torment that Alvar rushed towards Adyn, their swords ringing through the Winter town. And upon that first, strike, we all clashed together. Umber and Cassel, Flint and Glover, Bolton and Stark.

Adyn fought bravely, cursing and screaming as he threw himself forwards. But Alvar was older, and had experience with the Wildlings on his side. After a few short minutes, he stuck his blade inside Adyn's gut and out of the back of his shoulder.

Bennard was a man possessed. With only one good hand, he drew his ancestral blade, Ice, and charged at Alvar. No matter how much training or experience one has, it's nothing next to the untethered rage I saw control Bennard. He took one of Alvar's eyes before he was scurried away by his bannermen.

One and twenty years had passed since then. Bennard married Margareth Cassel and fathered three Starks with her. Alvar wed Ilyana Umber, lest he incur the wrath of another Northern house, and she bore him two demons by the name of 'Bolton'. It was only seventeen years later that the war officially started, with the exile of Finn Snow.

Although no-one knew what truly caused his exile, and I couldn't truly care much. He had started this war as much as Bennard Stark, Alvar Bolton and his whore sister. Bennard had failed to listen to me, and it had cost him his life and plunged our home into chaos. Markas was the same, never wise to his counsel. Blood would tell. As surely as Alvar Bolton had became the same beast as his father, Markas had become the same fool as his father.

I didn't like the Starks. In fact, if it was not for the oath of my forefathers, I may have taken up arms against them. But I had sworn an oath. The North remembers it's oaths. And so, with a heavy heart, I trod along on my mare, towards the destruction Markas Stark would bring forth.

 **Yeah, this is longer than the recent chapters. I figured it was a good time to properly explore the background of the War in the North. The next chapter is called** _ **Blood of the Dragon**_ **.**


	17. Blood of the Dragon

**So, only 2 more chapters after this. You know, funnily enough, I did like 6 storylines for a GoT story, but when I was planning out my first draft, this was going to be the opening chapter. Anyhoo, enjoy this chapter.**

 **Delyth Tyrell – The Red Keep, King's Landing, The Crownlands**

Aeron's chambers were like nothing I had seen before. My chamber back in Highgarden looked out across the briar maze by the battlements, the Three Singers in the godswood and beyond that, the whole of the Reach. Here, Aeron's balcony faced the Blackwater, looking to Dragonstone.

"It's a beautiful view…" I smiled, "I expect we'll be very happy here."

"I'd prefer to see the city," Aeron said, a hand behind his platinum hair, "and not just water."

"So, why do you remain here?"

"Rylon requested it of me." He shrugged.

"Rylon's not a Targaryen."

"He may as well be," Aeron pushed himself up out of bed, "he sits on the Iron Throne, and makes decisions in my father's name."

"But it won't always be that way. Soon, Draegor will sit on the throne."

Aeron simply smiled in response as he walked towards me. His body was free of any grizzly scars like his brothers. No horrific burns on the side of his face. He took me in his arms, pressing his bare skin against my own and caressing my neck with his lips.

"Will we be married soon?" I asked him.

"Within a fortnight." He replied, somewhat muffled as he began to glide his hands across my bust. He held my thigh, wrapping my leg behind his waist and wrapping his arm around my waist. He made ready to hoist me up when an urgent knock sounded at the door.

I leapt towards the bed, jumping beneath the sheets. Aeron let out a groan and grabbed his dark breeches from the floor, pulling them on. "Enter." He leant against the posts of the bed.

Entering, was Ser Mikal Drake. He was a giant of a man, with ginger hair and two mismatched eyes. I have to admit, he was quite frightening to look at, especially with that solemn glare that rested on his face.

"Apologies, Your Grace," he bowed his head, looking over to me, "I did not know you were otherwise engaged."

"But the engagements been made well-known." Aeron sniggered as he poured himself a cup of wine. "I believe I asked you not to disturb me unless the time had come to pass."

"But that is it, Your Grace." Ser Mikal stated. "Your father, the King, is dead."

Aeron froze for so long I thought the red wine may overflow in his cup. "Long live the King." Aeron muttered, with Ser Mikal and myself following. "How did it happen?"

"He passed in his sleep, Your Grace. I believe it to be painless."

"Who else knows?"

"No-one, yet. Save the apothecary."

Aeron nodded, turning around and sipping the wine, "you've done well, Ser Mikal. We need to move quickly. Make sure none of the castle stirs. Summon the City Watch."

"And the Lord Hand, Your Grace?" Ser Mikal growled. He seemed to brew and boil with hatred at the mention of the man. Aeron shook his head.

"Regardless of your feelings to the man, this is a matter of succession. Stay your hand. Assign a guard to each of my family." Ser Mikal nodded, and Aeron turned towards me, handing me the cup of wine. "I'll return shortly."

"Where are you going?"

Aeron sighed, rubbing a thumb across my cheek, "Our father has died. I must go to Draegor in this time of need."

I nodded. Sweet, noble Aeron. He was truer than a thousand trueborn Targaryens. Just as I was worthier than Ashriel to inherit Highgarden. The way he had held me, and the way he had made me feel… it was the love that all the songs were made of.

"This isn't dangerous, is it?"

"Of course not," Aeron laughed, "these are just precautions. Draegor is the next-in-line, and must be protected. As must Laena." Aeron pulled on his boots and grabbed his shirt, throwing it over his head and fitting his arms through. He turned to Ser Mikal and nodded, closing the door with heavy metal clunks of the lock. I sank back into bed, awaiting his return, my mind swimming with thoughts of my sweet Dragon returning to me. How we would walk around court, the envy of women on my arm. And what about any children… perhaps something for Aeron's father. Rhaena? Rhaenys? What about the others after that?

Ever since father had told me I was to wed the silver-haired Aeron, I'd been thinking of names. Aegon was traditional and Targaryen, but neither Aeron nor I were traditional. What about girls? Daenna was nice… as was Alysys. Jaehna, maybe?

I could truly believe I would be happy here, with Aeron.

 **Aeron Targaryen – The Red Keep, King's Landing, the Crownlands**

I walked past the royal chambers. Members of the Kingsguard lined the hallway. At the end, stood Ser Mikal, in front of Draegor's room.

"Your Grace?"

"What?" I could feel my heart hammering in my throat. Was it anticipation? I'd have purpose now – no longer the Bastard of King's Landing.

"Viserys and his wife. We've not been able to find them. I believe he's sparring with Ser Richard Dayne."

Damned fucking fortunes! Now I would have to extend men to find him. Though, in this moment, there was indeed opportunity. Ser Mikal was a man driven by passion. It's ironic indeed that he loathed people as similar as the Baratheons to himself. In these times, precision and subtlety were needed, not lumbering bulls like Ser Mikal Drake.

"Ser Richard may retrieve him. Go, and bring the City Watch to the Red Keep." Ser Mikal bowed his head and did as he was bid. I opened the door to Draegor's room and closed it behind me.

The room was as dark as I remembered, and three times the size of my own. Only what I expected, of course. The next-in-line had to expect this. I walked across the room and opened the drapes, letting the sunlight dazzle into the room, the rays pouring over the candles that burnt. Pointless – Draegor had no use for them.

"Who's there?" Draegor drowsily rubbed his eyes.

"A Dragon." I replied, walking towards one of the post of his bed.

"Aeron?" Draegor fell back into bed, "I didn't hear you knock…"

"No time for pleasantries, brother." I tried to stay impartial. To not think about Rhaegon as my father. He was simply a corpse in this situation. "I have grave news. Our father, the King, is dead."

"Father?" Draegor sat up. "How soon? What happened?"

"His sickness has taken him." I moved away from his bed, and towards his chair, where Aegon's legendary blade, Blackfyre, hung in it's sheath, gathering dust. A conqueror's sword in the hands of a cripple. "An awful thing to happen. Alas, plans have been put in place to assure an easy transition." I ran a finger along the hilt, feeling the cold hilt graze against my skin. "King's Landing is a dangerous place. A nest of vipers. So, I took precautions."

"Precautions?" Draegor ran a hand through his knotted silver hair.

"You always were a child, Draegor. Waving a sword around and boasting your skill. You thought it made you a conqueror. Aegon Targaryen reborn." I shook my head, pulling Blackfyre out of it's sheath and walking back towards Draegor's bed. "You were a good knight, brother, I'll admit it, but you will never be a good king."

"Aeron, what are you talking about?"

"I never wanted the throne. I was courtly and respectful, and you greeted me with scorn and sniggers. I told you to remember what you have done to me." I raised the sword.

"Aeron, why are you talking like this?"

"Aegon took the kingdoms. It wasn't his birthright, yet he did so anyway." I swallowed the anticipation in my throat. "And I shall do the same."

I swung the blade through the posts, cracking them in half. The ornate oak of his bed groaned as the other posts creaked until they splintered. And in a flash, the posts fell outwards, and the oak roof of his bed collapsed on top of him, cutting his yelp short.

My heart was still thundering inside of my chest, as it hit me. It was that simple. It was done. I had been meticulous in planning. And now, Draegor the Blind of House Targaryen, first trueborn son of Rhaegon and Vysella Targaryen was dead.

I grabbed the belt that carried Blackfyre's sheath and fastened it around my breeches, making my way towards the door. I unlocked it and moved outside, running my mind through everything. Laena was held in her room, Visenya was on Dragonstone… but the only other claimant here was the youngest. I turned to the quivering Ser Howland Swann, who gripped the hilt of his sword tentatively.

"You're a knight of the Kingsguard, are you not?"

"I am."

I couldn't hide my smile as I felt it all coming together. I turned to exit the royal apartments, but not before turning back to Ser Howland. "Bring me my brother."

 **Now… let the games begin! Let me know if you saw that coming.**


	18. The Dread of the Boltons

**So this is a pretty long chapter… it's the last Bolton chapter of the instalment, so I wanted to show as many people as I could as well as moving the plot forwards. This is the penultimate chapter, so the next one is the last of this instalment. This instalment is, after all, just a set-up for everything that follows.**

 **Also, since this is going to need to be put into 4 instalments at least, I figured I should come up with a series name.**

 **Theadosia Bolton – The Dreadfort, The North**

He wept as I peeled back the skin. He screeched as I freed his flesh. It was strange, watching his face contort and spit fling from his lips as I twisted the knife and pried it below the skin. I was careful not to catch the muscles. No, I wanted it to be a perfect job… And sure enough, when I finished, the skin of his torso hung on either side of him, like a shirt had been undone.

"I'll give you a moment." I placed the knife on the table, and dipped my hands in the water next to it, rinsing the blood off. I glanced to my right, where Alara Hornwood waited patiently, eyes fixed on the corner.

Alara was two years my junior, and had been in my service for three years now. Unlike Katya, she never seemed to enjoy our hunts and games. Too sheltered, too hesitant. Father had adamantly requested her as my handmaiden, doubtlessly because her family had a history with my own. Alara's aunt, Melissa Manderly, had been my aunt Maryana's handmaiden, and consequently became a mistress to my father. Perhaps this was some way to find a wife for Raff. No… I wouldn't like that much. Raff would brutalize the girl in the most boring, obvious ways. He never could fathom the subtleties and finesse I had begun to master.

She was a pretty thing, if one cared for such things. Golden brown hair that was plaited in a style similar to my own. Large flint grey eyes like mine, and a constellation of freckles on her cheeks. She was dressed in a simple blue dress, spun from fine wool.

"Where did you get that dress?"

Alara looked down at her clothes, "It was my aunt's, My Lady."

I nodded, "Your aunt that my father fucked?" I didn't speak out of spite or bitterness. No, I just wanted to see how she would react to this. She was usually so quiet, I couldn't for the life of me gauge an emotional response. Not unless I was killing someone or flaying someone else.

"Yes, My Lady."

"Rat," I turned towards my toy, "do you know about Lady Melissa Manderly?" He was silent, panting as his head lolled against his chest. "Rat, you remember what happens when you don't answer me?"

"Yes, Mistress," he croaked in a shallow voice, "She were the mistress of Alvar Bolton."

"Lord Alvar Bolton." I corrected him.

"Apologies Mistress- Lord Alvar Bolton! Apologies Mistress!"

"Carry on."

"Lady Melissa was to marry Lord Alvar. And then the Starks… the…" He gulped as if he was trying to swallow the words.

"Go on." I smiled, watching him wrestle with that last part of him. That last part of him that was Rickard of Crofters. I watched his eyes swell as I picked up the blade once more, twirling it around in my fingers.

"The oathbreaker Stark kidnapped and defiled Maryan- Lady Maryana."

"Who was promised to…"

"Who was promised to Lord Elryn Umber. Lord Alvar married Lady Ilyana Umber to honour the betrothal. Lady Melissa died some years later…" Rickard hung his head solemnly, sobbing quietly into the red flesh of his shoulder, blood smearing onto his chin.

"Very good, Rat." I smiled, walking up to him and pressing my lips to his cheek, delicately kissing him. "Very good." I turned around to face Alara. "Did you get all that?"

"I did, My Lady." Alara kept her gaze at the floor.

"Look at him, Alara." I instructed. She tentatively moved her eyes up to face him, in all his glory. "I think I've taken all the Stark out of him." I admired my work. "He's so beautiful now, isn't he? Look at the muscles," I gestured with the knife, "the bones here are to protect the heart. You can see just under the muscle…" I prodded the scarlet sponge of flesh with the tip of the knife, making him flinch and the muscles contract. "Come, it's your turn."

I held out the knife. "My Lady?"

"It's your turn." I repeated. "Take the knife, and flay him. Just as I showed you." She froze, eyes fixed on the bloodied knife. I could see it in her eyes – it was the same look Rickard had. That last part of her she didn't want to die. I hid my smile. "No? More for me…" I turned back to the Rat. "Let's continue…"

"Theodosia."

I froze. It hadn't been Alara who had spoken. No, it was a cold voice, harsh and stridulent. Followed by footsteps and that tell-tale tap of metal. In entered my mother. A skeletal figure, with her cheeks jutting out sharply, a thin scar sitting heavily upon it. Her eyes were hard and green. She wore a long black dress, leaning heavily on that cane, where she tapped a finger.

"My Lady." I curtsied, immediately dropping my gaze to the floor.

"What is this?" She moved forwards, cane stabbing at the stone floor as she approached the Rat.

"This was Rickard. A Stark soldier."

"Starks…" The word poured from her mouth like bile. "What are you doing with him?"

I began to frantically search for an excuse. Raff's plaything? No, she's beaten me before for blaming others. She'd beat me doubly so if I said he was _my_ plaything. Father's? No, father never flayed unless it was absolutely necessary. I was cut off as she struck a hand across my face, sending me back into the table, where I dropped the knife.

"You filthy wretch…" she growled. "What have I done to deserve such a fiend like you for a daughter? I should have throttled you the moment you crawled out from between my legs…" Mother stopped talking as if someone had spoken her name. She turned about to face Alara, whose face quickly distorted into one of panic. Mother's eyes widened as she tilted her head, examining her. "You're the one."

"My Lady?" Alara turned towards me.

"You're Alvar's whore," She took a step towards her, "The filthy Manderly bitch. Insulting me… ridiculing me. Seeking to kill me to take my place!" Mother raised her cane and struck Alara in the waist. Alara fell to the ground, clutching at her stomach in agony. "Do you carry his babe in your belly? The beast shall not father any more brats!" Mother whipped the metal top of the cane across Alara's back. And again. And again.

"My Lady, I apologize-" Alara began to plead.

"You'd dare address me? In my own Keep? Insolent, petulant-"

"What's this ruckus?" I heard his voice. That deep, calm tone. Standing in the doorway was father, lean with greying hair and greyer eyes. That old, white scar that sat in the right of his face, behind the leather strap that covered his eye. Taken from him by Ben Stark after he struck down the brother, Adyn.

"Your daughter's games…" Mother spoke, her voice dripped in malice as she rested both hands on her cane, "I grow weary of them. And her."

Father looked between Alara, who lay on the floor gently sobbing, and me. I held my hand against my cheek, which still stung. Father clenched his jaw. "Lay a hand on my daughter again, and I shall have you whipped through the streets like a dog."

"You wield your words like a blade to a corpse." Mother scoffed, "What more are you capable of? I would endure a thousand lashes if it meant being free of you and your hellish spawn."

"Humble yourself, wife," Father took the blade from the table, "or I will humble you." Mother glowered at him before straightening up and walking away, the taps of her cane clacking against the stone faintly until they disappeared. Father's eyes lingered on Alara, who began to stand up. Father offered her a hand, helping her rise. "Did she hurt you?"

"I offended her, My Lord," Alara kept her tear-soaked face towards the stone floor, "the fault was mine, I'm sure."

Father turned towards me, moving my hand away and looking at my cheek. He gritted his teeth once more and looked at the door mother had just left through. "Damned Umbers…" He turned to Alara, "Find the Maester and see him to your wounds."

Alara curtsied and left. Father turned to the Rat, who had refused to look at us. "Thea, what is this?"

"A Rat." I answered. "He used to be a Stark scout."

"Stark…" Father growled, his voice boiling as he gripped the knife. "You serve the Starks?" The Rat refused to answer, his lip trembling as his eyes rested at my feet. "Have you taken his tongue?"

"Lord Alvar asked you a question, Rat."

"Yes, milord, I served the Starks."

"Ben Stark?" Father snarled.

"Yes, milord."

"Two fingers…" Father examined the Rat's hand. "Thief?"

"Truanting training, milord."

"Cowardice? Or laziness?"

"Reluctance, milord."

Father shook his head and turned back towards me, fiddling with the knife as he did so. "These games bore me, Thea," his voice was gentler when he spoke with me, "a Lady should not be engaged with such activities."

"Yes, My Lord." I nodded, bowing my head. His eyes twinkled for a moment as the corner of his lip pulled up for a moment into a smile.

"You're a lot like your aunt." He glanced back to the knife. "She used to look down at the ground when she was lying too." He placed a finger under my chin, raising my gaze to meet his. I could see myself reflected in his own eyes. I wondered what they looked like cut open. What sort of juice would come out… would it be like an egg? How would it react to heat? "If you wish to continue with these acts, do it without the Hornwood girl. Use the Whitehill lass."

"Katya? Why not Alara?"

"The girl is of a delicate nature. Her strengths lie in how you must conduct yourself around others."

"Of course, father." I curtsied. Father sighed, and turned back towards the Rat.

"I know it isn't your fault, boy." He informed the Rat. "So many men die in the wars of others… but it was your Lord who spilled blood first." He then plunged the knife through the Rat's heart, watching him pant and groan, leaning forwards and letting out a moan of anguish. Father then turned back towards me. "Go and get ready for the feast. The Umbers arrive presently. And tell your brother."

"Of course." I curtsied. "Why me?"

"The boy exhausts me," Father dropped the knife onto the table and began to rinse his hands, "besides, I thought you might enjoy exercising the power." He gave me a smile. "I'll tell the men to clean all this up." He nodded to the Rat's corpse and exited the chamber.

 **Alara Hornwood – The Dreadfort, The North**

There was something about Lord Bolton. They way he looked at me… it was unsettling. I was waiting for him to suddenly produce a knife or some morbid instrument of torture. Or, perhaps it was just because of what I'd seen Theadosia do to that poor man. Gods… I could still hear that awful squelching sound…

I took a breath to centre myself, flattening out the creases in my dress as I clasped my hands and waited for Theadosia to return. The door opened, and in entered Katya Whitehill. She placed a wooden tray of food down at the table before turning her gaze to me.

"Who hurt you?" I looked down at the tear in the mid-riff of my dress.

"Lady Ilyana."

Katya nodded slowly. We'd both been here long enough to endure a hiding from the Lady of the Dreadfort. But Katya seemed to have changed while she was here. I remembered playing with her as a child; Kitty, I used to call her. She was adventurous and boundless, always running off to climb trees or discover the secrets of the forests… Now, she was a statue. Made of stone, with nothing resembling the child I had known.

The door creaked open, and in sauntered Raff Bolton. His chiselled face was shorn clean of any hair, save his eyebrows. He was wrapped in a series of dark leathers, a hand resting on the axe sheathed at his belt. "You haven't seen my sister as of late?" Katya shook her head.

"She was in the dungeons with your Lord father, My Lord." I informed him.

"Well then," Raff walked into the room, "I think I'll wait here for her." He walked in and sat down at her table, picking at the breast of chicken. His eyes drifted over towards Katya. "I heard this one recently; How many babes does it take to paint a room?"

Katya froze, as did I. I was grateful to have avoided Raff's torment and jokes this time, but Raff had found Katya's weak point. Her younger brother and sister. Raff preyed on this daily, trying to provoke her through tales of slaughtering children.

"Do you think I'm talking to hear the sound of my own voice?" Raff tore off another part of chicken.

"No, My Lord."

"Well then?" Raff began to chew, waiting for her to respond.

"I don't know, My Lord." Katya replied, one hand clenching the other as I saw her try to contain her rage. Raff cleared his throat, and raised an eyebrow expectantly. "How many babes does it take to paint a room?"

"Well, it all depends on how hard you throw them." He let out a small titter as Katya turned away from him, trying to busy herself with menial tasks. Raff shifted his attention to me. "Are you mute, girl?"

"No, My Lord."

"So… what, you didn't like my joke?" Raff stood up. I didn't know how to respond here. I knew what he was looking for – he wanted me to bend and submit to his will. But there was something in me that would not allow me to do so. Some sort of Northern pride, I suppose. "You are a fair beauty…" Raff looked me up and down, "for a Hornwood lass. You know, back on the Iron Islands, we took Salt Wives during raids. By the Gods, we never found a girl like you. Not much to my liking, but if Sigurd Greyjoy found you…"

Before Raff could finish with his horrid tales, My Lady Theodosia entered the room, visibly vexed about something.

"Raff." She said, voice steeled and cold.

"Sweetest sister," Raff opened his arms widely, "your Ladies were just entertaining me. And I them, I believe…" He turned to face Katya, who still looked away from him.

"Why are you in my room?"

"Oh, no reason…" Raff sat back down and poured himself a cup of wine, "I just found myself with nothing to do today."

"Aren't you usually sparring?"

"Usually, aye. But this new squire… Dalton? Duncan?" Raff began to snap his fingers as he tried to remember. He turned to me. "Your cousin, Manderly."

"Darnis, My Lord." I corrected him. Darnis had been in Raff's service for little over a week now, at the age of thirteen.

"That's the one! Well, he's an arm less now." Raff rubbed his eye tiredly as he drank, "you should have heard him; whinging and whining… Gods, my ears are still ringing."

"How heart-breaking for you…" Thea said absent-mindedly, looking through her letters. She eventually put them down and turned to face Raff. "You should be getting ready."

"Ready for what?"

"The Umbers are early. They arrive within the hour, and we're having a feast to celebrate their arrival."

Raff snorted loudly, "Fucking Umbers… what are we eating?"

"That's not what's important, Raff."

"It _is_ a feast…" Raff drank more of the wine.

"The purpose of them being here is to conduct a strategy against the Starks."

"What strategy?" Raff stood up, "We'll meet them in battle, and I'll take Markas' head, just as I did his father."

I remembered hearing the tales of this. Alvar had wanted Bennard Stark brought back to the Dreadfort for execution, in accordance with our laws. Raff, however, was a mad dog. He had fought Bennard and clobbered him to death on the battlefield, taking his head as a prize and returning it to our father. I'd heard the men talking about him on the battlefield - he had been a man possessed, fighting like fury incarnate.

"Go and get yourself ready. Father requests it."

Raff placed the empty cup on the table, "Requests or orders?"

"Pick one." Thea responded, eyes cold and flint against Raff's burning steel. Raff eventually turned around and left the room, muttering darkly to himself. "Come," Thea took a breath, "there's much to do."

 **Alvar Bolton – The Dreadfort, The North**

Our hall was crammed full of tables, each adorning candelabras, illuminating the black stonework and banners of House Bolton and House Umber. It was during these feasts that I remember being in Winterfell. Their hall was infinitely greater than ours, with windows to allow in the winter's sun. Their hall bustled with cheer and merriment, much like mine did now. But mine was tainted… besmirched by the treacherous Stark. Beside me, Lord Umber's eldest son, Elrys, spoke with his niece, Thea. She had very little of the Umber blood in her, if you asked me. No, she was spitting likeness of her aunt, Maryana. So beautiful… dark hair, flint-grey eyes. Carved features and a brilliant smile. Not to mention her brain. She had Maryana's mind, able to calculate risk and strategy.

"This meat is fucking tough!" Elrys Umber growled, "What is it?"

"Rat." Thea smiled, watching him eat each mouthful. Elrys stopped for a moment before proceeding to give a hearty laugh.

"Rat!" He chortled, "Fucking rat! She's got a sense of humour… she gets that from me!" Elrys informed me. I gave a smile as I looked towards Thea, shaking my head. These games she played… I knew which rat she had used for Elrys' meal. Disgusting…

I'd made Raff sit with the other bannerlords below us, in order to teach him some sort of humility. It seems the lesson was wasted on him, as he thrived there, talking with the throngs of common soldiers. He arm-wrestled an Umber, cursing and swearing as he slammed the man's hand onto the table, cheering and gulping down copious amounts of ale. He was nothing like me. Or like Maryana. He was like his grandfather. The man was cruel, brutish and foul. I didn't shed a single tear when I burnt his body. Nor when I plunged the knife in his heart.

On the other side of me, sat my wife. Ilyana was a tempestuous woman, full of spite and malevolence. The woman repulsed me now. Once, I had hoped to marry my sister's handmaiden, Melissa Manderly. A beautiful, compassionate woman. But, with the traitorous Stark, I had to honour the agreement with the Umbers, and marry the vicious Ilyana. The years only twisted her mind further, turning her into herself as she screamed at the shadows. Many nights, I found she wandered the castle, spouting nonsensical ravings about wolves and dragons. Once, she insisted a titanic wolf of stone had come to crush us all, breathing a black inferno that engulfed the castle. Gods, she demoralized the men more than a thousand Stark soldiers could have. Since then, I had endeavoured to keep her under careful supervision. Ilyana held the knife in her hand, her eyes resting on Alara Hornwood. She had her aunt's frizzy golden hair and freckles. Though, her eyes were not a Hornwood's eyes. They were light and large like Thea's. Lighter than the Oathbreaker Stark's.

"What are you doing with that?" I asked her quietly, so as to not grab her brother Elrys' attention.

"I was contemplating castrating the hounds." She stated in a daze, like she was under some witch's curse.

"At least it's not the servants again." I leant over and took the knife from her hand. "From this moment, anything you do to my daughter, I'll visit upon you thrice."

"Gallant as ever." Ilyana replied, looking away from me. "Perhaps I will fling myself from the highest tower. And free us both of each other."

"And who would you torment then?" I leant back into my chair, sipping the wine. I was careful never to get drunk, especially not because of someone. Strength came from within, and I would endure this malign woman. I stood up, clapping my hands to gain the attention of all within the hall. "Boltons!" I called, watching my men cheer. "Umbers!" The other half cheered. "Near two decades ago, we joined our houses when I married your Lady Ilyana." The Umbers all cheered as Elrys grinned at her. Ilyana, however, retreated further into herself, and gripped her fork. "And we all remember why. Bennard Stark was a friend to many of us, once. Under the reign of his father, we all prospered. But Cayde Stark is dead. As is Bennard Stark, by the hand of my son, Raff Bolton." I held out a hand, watching all the men cheer as Raff stood up, taking a bow and raising his glass to me. "Bennard Stark dishonoured my family. He dishonoured your family. And Markas Stark, the Young Cub, has wed his sister to the Baratheons! He would bring Southnors up to fight his war for him!" The men began to hiss and sneer at this, Raff being the loudest of them. "He has found allies in the South, and so too must we."

"Southnors?" Raff stood up, swaying and slurring, "you'd bring Southnors up to kill Starks?"

"No," I shook my head, addressing all in the room, "the North is ours. We can beat back the Starks without the help of flower-scented knights from the South. But Markas Stark is counting on the help of the Baratheons. What he does not realize, is that we too have cemented an alliance with a Great House. They will keep the Baratheons from marching North, and we shall crush the Starks and take Winterfell, as our ancestors, the Red Kings, did aeons ago!" The men howled and cheered at this, thumping their tankards against the tables. "And now, join me in raising a glass." The men all did so. "To the union of Raff of the House of Bolton, and Lyra of the House of Lannister!"

 **Plot twist! No-one saw that one coming…**

 **Let me know what you guys thought of this chapter – it took me a little longer than usual to write it because it's three fairly long POVs. Anyhow, please leave a review, don't forget to favourite…**

 **Now, I won't be able to start the second instalment until I get some Essossi characters. What I need is some Bravos (Water-Dancers) and a special Essossi character. If you haven't submitted an Essossi character, please send one in.**


	19. Fire & Blood

**So guys… the final chapter of Part 1. I mean… I'm kind of happy I could complete this story – it's a bit of a rarity.**

 **First off, let me just say thank you to everyone who's submitted characters. Honestly, I can tell when someone's put in time and care and effort into their characters, and it really does make up this story. Sure, I come up with the storylines and put the characters in situations, but you guys have made tremendous contributions to this story.**

 **I want to start the next story on Wednesday, but I need a special character – The First Sword of the Sealord of Braavos. That's pretty much it, though I'm always in need of Northern lords. I'm also planning on including the Lannisters and Arryns more in the next story, so you can jump on that if you want. Braavosi characters are also appreciated.**

 **Anyway, onwards with this. I really hope you guys enjoy this chapter. Enjoy a meaty finale.**

 **Viserys Targaryen – The Red Keep, King's Landing, The Crownlands**

I used a counter-riposte, knocking Ser Richard Dayne's greatsword out of his hands and onto the stone slabs. I moved to point my blade at his throat, when he produced a small dagger, which grated against my own blade until it reached the hilt. He hooked his blade around the crossguard of my sword and tore it from my grip, pointing the dagger at my throat. I held up my hands with a laugh, pushing him away.

"Yield, I yield…" Ser Richard laughed and removed his helm, "Gods, you're quick."

"Speed trumps strength in any fight, Your Grace."

"I found that endurance is effective against both." I reasoned, thinking back all those days to the Ironborn raid on the fishing villages. I could still remember that bearded face roaring as he thrust his sword towards my eye.

"Endurance _is_ important, that is true," Ser Richard sheathed his dagger, "but sooner or later, it runs out." Ser Richard bent down to pick up his greatsword, "Sap a strong man of his strength and he has nothing left."

"What if it's several strong men?" I smiled, removing my own helm and walking with him to the table.

"Then make your peace and hope it's for a good cause." Ser Richard picked up a cup of wine, clinking it with my own, and sipped. I nodded, drinking as well.

"Prince Viserys." A knight of the Kingsguard, Ser Howland Swann, walked into the courtyard. "Ser Richard." He bowed his head and Ser Richard returned the gesture.

"Ser Howland." I placed my helm on the table. "Would you join us for a cup of wine? Ser Richard has been schooling me in the art of war. I look forward to telling my children I was taught by the Sword of the Morning." Ser Richard couldn't help but smile at this – I knew that was what he wanted. And, by the Gods, I believed he would earn that title.

"I'm afraid I must decline. Your brother, the Prince Aeron, has summoned you to the throne room."

"Summoned me?" I furrowed my brow. Since when did Aeron summon anyone in our family.

"It's a matter of the utmost urgency, Your Grace."

"Of course." I nodded, setting down my cup of wine. Ser Richard placed his on the table as well.

"You are not needed, Ser Richard." Ser Howland held out a hand.

"Am I forbidden from accompanying the Prince?" Ser Richard chuckled.

"The Prince is not in any danger."

"Ser Richard is a member of the Kingsguard, is he not?" I asked Ser Howland.

"I… Yes, Your Grace."

"Then he is as welcome there as any other man." I stated. Ser Howland opened his mouth, eyes darting between Ser Richard and me, until he finally nodded, turning around and leading the way to the throne room.

Ser Howland opened the doors to the throne room, ushering in me and Ser Richard. It was empty of the court. Instead, there were four members of the Kingsguard and Aeron, who sat, lounging, upon the Iron Throne.

"Aeron?" I asked, walking down the long walkway, past the vine-carved pillars. "Why are you sitting there?"

"Come, brother," Aeron stood up from the throne, behind the four Kingsguard knights that stood together like an impenetrable wall, "it saddens me greatly to tell you that both our father and our brother have passed from this world tonight."

Everything stopped. Father's death… I had come to terms with that already, but Draegor? The man who taught me to wield my first sword? He used to call me 'Ser Viserys' just to make me smile when I was a child. And now… gone, so early into his third decade.

"Draegor?" I couldn't seem to fathom it. It was more than grief; I couldn't understand how Dreagor could have died. "How?"

"I fear that, in grief of our beloved father's death, he took his own life." Aeron looked down at the ground, eyes swelling as he swallowed hard. There was some comfort in knowing that Aeron felt the same pain that I did. There wasn't much, but there was still some. "I want you to write to Visnya, and call her back to King's Landing for the funeral."

"Of course, of course." I nodded. "If Draegor's dead, I suppose that makes you the successor?" I asked.

"It does." Aeron rubbed his chin, eyes examining me with great attention. There was something about it, the amount of focus and lack of emotion on his face… it unsettled me. "Does this sit uneasily with you?"

Truth be told, it did. Aeron was not a real Targaryen, not really. And, he was not a just ruler. I'm sure he was the most intelligent, and the most suited to run the kingdoms, but he was no ruler. When I returned back to King's Landing after the Ironborn Raids, Aeron had seen my scar and demanded that the Iron Islands be set ablaze. He was determined to wipe out a kingdom in the blink of an eye. For the actions of rogue men, he would kill women and babes. It was only for my argument against him that the Iron Islands still stood unscorched.

"No," I lied quickly, "it does not. You are the next in line."

Aeron's face remained unchanged. He was different. It was as if Aeron was not there anymore. There was no courtesy or courtly formality. It was as he had shed a mask I'd only ever seen him wear. Here, this was truly him. I knew it in my bones.

And it scared me.

"Back in the Vale," Aeron began to speak, "I grew up in the Fingers with my mother. A miserable little spit of land. You lived in a palace, and I lived in a shack. All because I had the wrong mother. And then I came here. I was so happy; King's Landing – the capital of the Seven Kingdoms. To be raised with a King for a father and to have a whole family. And you squandered me," Aeron's voice turned cold and harsh, "I was treated like a dog! Told to bow and scrape and thank you for the pleasure of serving you." Aeron sat back down on the throne. "Draegor never saw me as a Targaryen. Neither did Laena, or Visenya or you. Even after our father declared me one." He held out his hands. "And who sits on the Iron Throne now?"

It was only now that I noticed the stance of the Kingsguard knights. They all had one hand clasping the sheathe of their swords. You only held your sheathe like that when you were prepared to bare steel. I took a step backwards. "How did my brother die, Aeron?"

"Your brother…" Aeron scoffed, "even now, you still don't see me as family." I took another step backwards, clasping the sheathe of my own sword. "Ser Mikal Drake," Aeron spoke to the tallest member of the Kingsguard, "bring my brother here."

All the members of the Kingsguard gathered behind Ser Mikal, who drew his longsword, the pommel of which was carved into a silver dragonhead, not unlike my own.

"You men served King Rhaegon and his children for decades," Ser Richard spoke beside me, "and now you would turn on him for this pretender? This usurper?"

"You disobey our king, Dornishman." Ser Mikal growled from beneath his steel helm. Ser Richard turned to face me for a moment, and I could see it in his dark eyes. The turmoil. He was a knight, sworn to serve the King in all matters. But he was a Dayne, first and foremost. He would always be Ser Richard Dayne. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, before he reached back and tore off his white cloak, letting it drop to the floor.

"Your king," He drew his greatsword, "not mine."

The Kingsguard began to advance. Ser Howland, who I had gone hunting with, or Ser Mikal, who I had fight beside during the Ironborn Raids. They all began to near me like wolves. I drew my own sword – for I was a knight. I may not have had the title, but I had the heart. And I would avenge my brother.

"Your Grace, I'm afraid you have reached the end of my tutelage." Ser Richard moved in front of me. "Get your wife, and leave."

"I am Viserys Targaryen," I stated loudly, so Aeron could hear me, "Rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms, and I do not run."

"You do today." Ser Richard informed me. He grabbed the back of my head, making me face him. "Get your wife. And go." He was only a handful of years older than myself. He had brothers, a mother, a father. A whole life. I'd always imagined him to train my own sons in swordplay. Perhaps even fostering any children he may have on Dragonstone. He turned back to the approaching knights. "I'll attend to this rabble."

I knew he was right. It was a choice between both of us dying or just one. Or perhaps not; Ser Richard Dayne was the finest fighter I'd ever seen. But I couldn't think of myself. What about Haylise? And Visenya? And Laena? With one look at Aeron, I made a pledge to myself. I would kill him before my last breath. I would slit his throat and rest easy, knowing my brother was avenged.

With a heavy heart, I ran.

 **Haylise Baratheon – The Red Keep, King's Landing, The Crownlands**

I sat in my chamber, practicing my embroidery. My wedding night with Viserys had been… surprisingly enjoyable. Not to say I expected much less, but I had expected him to be hesitant and tentative, which he was, indeed, but he was also attentive. Loving. That was something I hadn't experienced in a long time.

A knock sounded at the door, and Lady Ashriel entered. She clasped her hands and remained at the door when she asked, "Ser Florian Hightower refuses to allow me to see the Princess Laena. May I humble beg Your Grace's assistance?" It was impressive, really, how formal she remained while being so aloof.

"You don't want to ask Viserys for assistance?" I raised an eyebrow at her. Ashriel remained quiet, which pleased me greatly. I knew it wasn't the girl's fault, but I wouldn't have anyone question the legitimacy of my own children. Being a bastard was a hard life for a child, I knew that much.

Before I could continue speaking, I heard yelling the stone corridor outside. Ashriel and I walked out, and saw Viserys standing in the hallway, brandishing his longsword as he and Ser Florian engaged in combat. Ashriel and I shouted for him, as he darted back and forth, parrying Ser Florian's blade. Seconds later, Ser Florian's movements began to slow, as he threw all his weight behind his blows. Viserys gracefully leant backwards before slashing his sword through the air, spurting blood from Ser Florian's throat across the walls. I covered my mouth in shock as I stifled a scream.

"Viserys!" I cried. "What have you done?"

"Aeron's trying to kill us." Viserys took my hand. "He killed my brother Draegor."

"Aeron?" Ashriel asked, face full of terror. "Viserys, he's to wed my sister."

"I promise, I won't let that happen." Viserys informed me. "I need to get to Dragonstone."

"No, Viserys, we need to get to my father." I reasoned. "He's the Hand of the King. Rhaegon won't-"

"My father is dead. Your father is no longer Hand of the King."

"Then he's not safe here! We need to get him back-" I tried to move past him, but Viserys held me in place.

"Haylise, I've lost a father, a brother, and a friend in one day. Please, don't add my wife to that."

"He's my father, Viserys!"

"I promise, Aeron won't get away with this. But I know Rylon. He would want you to get away."

I felt my chest swell, like a beast had started roaring in my stomach. I wanted to scream, and beat the walls until my fists were bloodied and knuckles were cracked. But I wouldn't. No, I would save every morsel of rage for Aeron the Pretender.

Shouts echoed down the hallway, and Viserys dragged Ashriel and I back into my chambers. At the end of the hallway, I could hear the distinguishable voice of Ser Mikal Drake.

"Find him! Search everywhere!"

Viserys cursed to himself as he pushed back his hair. He gripped the hilt of his longsword as he started to walk towards the door. However, Ashriel held him in place, shaking her head. There was a moment between the two of them where a thousand words had been said between them in one look.

"Ashriel…" Viserys began, but he couldn't find the words. He voice was cracked as he exhaled in search of words. Ashriel placed a hand upon his cheek.

"In another life, we may have been wed."

"I wouldn't have given this life for another." He placed a hand around her neck and kissed her gently. I wasn't angry, I was just upset. Viserys would never love me like that. That was the sort of love that you only have for one person in your life. It reminded me of my own last kiss with the man who took my maidenhead. I could still remember my fingers getting tangled in his dark brown hair. Viserys shared his sharp cheekbones, you'd think you could cut your fingers when they lay so gently upon them.

"There's a body! He's come this way!" A voice sounded from the hall.

Ashriel turned away from him and left the room. I heard her run down, crying and bawling. "Oh, thank the Gods you're here! He's gone mad! The Prince! He's taken his wife and gone to the Blackwater!" I studied Viserys as he bit his lip, eyebrows pulled together in pain as he moved to peek around the doorway. He turned back to me, grabbing my hand and pulling me through the hallways.

We made our way down to the cellars beneath the Red Keep, pressing up against the walls, with Viserys halting me every now and then. We eventually found a metal gate, which Viserys opened, taking one of the torches and leading my by the hand through a series of tunnels. He was quiet, eyes rushing around as his head darted at the slightest flicker of a shadow.

"Who built these?" I asked, in an attempt to steady his nerves.

"Maegor the Cruel built the Red Keep, as you know," Viserys opened another gate, "but what many people don't know, is that he killed the men who built all these tunnels and passageways."

"It's clever." I nodded. "So only he would know the secrets of the castle."

"Exactly," Viserys threw the torch on the floor as we neared another gate, "Visenya loved exploring when we were younger." Viserys picked up a rock from the floor, and began to hammer his dagger into the lock of the gate.

"Does Aeron know about them?"

"The bastard would've complained about the dark…" Viserys muttered bitterly. The dagger eventually broke through the We emerged into blinding sunlight as Viserys closed the gate behind us. As my eyes adjusted, I could see that we were in a small alleyway, tucked away behind a series of crates and sacks.

"Where are we?"

"A moment's walk from Rhaenys' Hill." Viserys informed me.

"Why are we at Rhaenys' Hill?" As soon as I asked, I knew why. "Moonfyre."

Viserys nodded, unbuckling his belt that held his daggers sheathe. He encased the dagger and handed it to me. "You'll need this."

"A blade?" I asked, taking it in my hands. "Viserys, I don't know how to fight."

"It's not for fighting." Viserys said solemnly. It began to dawn on me what he was offering me here. "It's a mercy compared to what they'll do."

I nodded, clutching the cold hilt of the heavy dagger as I steeled my resolve. Could I do it when the time came? I could only hope that I wouldn't have to find out. Viserys wrapped an arm around me and we began to walk through the crowds. Viserys kept his head low as we moved quickly. Out of all the monarchy, Viserys was the most recognizable, with the exception of maybe Visenya. But the Targaryens were easily distinguishable by their hair, skin and eyes. We came closer to Rhaenys' Hill, when I began to realise some flaws with his plan.

"How will Moonfyre know to be here?" I asked, my eyes darting around for guards.

"I can't describe it," Viserys said, watching the people as I did, "Moonfyre knows me. It's like… it's like she can feel what I think. She's a part of me." We rushed up onto the grassy, mountainous hill. It was strange, walking up it this time. The only other time I'd been here, I had arrived in a carriage. It took a good part of an hour to climb to the top of the hill.

Once there, we were greeted by an awful sight. Standing there, was a group of Goldcloaks. They clasped the hilts of their swords, drawing them upon seeing us. Viserys and I, on the other hand, were utterly exhausted from the ascent.

"Bastard…" Viserys muttered to himself.

"By order of Aeron of the House Targaryen," one of the Goldcloaks spoke, "First of his Name, King of the Andals and Lord Protector of the Realm, you are under arrest for treason and kinslaying."

"Treason?" I asked. "Aeron murdered Draegor!"

"Surrender your arms on pain of death!"

Viserys responded by drawing his sword, a thin dark blade. Darksister. I'd heard the tales of the ancestral blade. Gods, I hoped it protected us now. Viserys flourished the blade and changed his stance, ready to fend them off.

They ran towards us, but Viserys stepped in front of me. He ducked away from one spear, sinking his sword through the golden armour of one man and tugging it out with ease. The second man swung his spear, which cut against Viserys' leg. He cried out in pain and swung his sword, severing the spear in half. As he tried to attack, Viserys noticed a man had begun to approach me. I had my dagger ready, moving backwards. Viserys jumped forwards, grabbing the man's head, and slicing his throat in front of me.

I watched the body fall to the ground as the man spluttered and clutched his throat before lying still, eyes staring off in the distance. I heard a yell, and saw Viserys had fallen onto his knee, a long, falcon-feathered bolt protruding from his shoulder. Another one struck his waist as he groaned, his grip on his sword loosening. I looked towards the crossbow, who went to load another bolt. And that was when I saw it.

Plummeting from the sky like a star, wings tucked around it's body as it dove down in the distance. Moonfyre pelted through the sky behind the Goldcloaks. It was only when she let out a screech that the Goldcloaks turned around to face her. By then, it was too late; Moonfyre landing on two of them, beating her wings and sinking her teeth into another one of them. I grabbed Viserys, pulling his arm around my neck as I half-dragged him towards Moonfyre as she breathed great jets of fire upon the Goldcloaks. Viserys and I scrambled up Moonfyre's wing and sat on the saddle, where I fastened his belt to the hilt.

"Hold on tight!" He groaned as I clung to his waist. He grabbed one of Moonfyre's scaled silver spikes and spoke in another language – High Valyrian. Moonfyre bellowed and began to canter off the hill, beating her wings until we propelled into the sky. Arrows flung below us, none of them quite able to reach us. Still, Moonfyre weaved through the sky under Viserys' control.

I looked below at King's Landing. Lyra was still there, as was father. I hoped they wouldn't die, but in that moment, I truly didn't know if they would survive. None of this seemed real yet. King's Landing looked exactly the same as it had ever been. I knew it was dangerous, but I always thought it was so greatly exaggerated. Now, I knew I was wrong. We had lost. Aeron was King, and he had my friend and my father.

But we had survived. And while we were alive, they still had a chance. I had to hold onto that. They were still alive. I promised myself that one day, we would come back here, and I would put my husband on the throne, where he belonged.

And all the Gods above and all the demons below would not save Aeron from us.

 **Well… that's it. I hope you guys enjoyed this story. I've been nominated for a Golden Pen Award a couple of times but… well, I've never actually managed to finish my SYOCs before. And the reason I did this one so quickly was because I've kinda been planning this for years, but also because you guys gave me so many reviews! Seriously, it's incredible the support I've gotten from this.**

 **So, leave me a review. If you could, sum up what you liked from the story, what you didn't like, what you want to see more of… if you can tell me your favourite moments, I can try and tailor the next story a bit more to make it what you guys want.**

 **Also, feel free to make predictions or fan theories. Because, I mean, I've already laid the groundwork for those signature G. R. R. Martin twists. It's just hard to figure out how to do them… So, if you make a GoT prediction that proves accurate, you get some of those Rougeification brownie points.**

 **Anyway, I'll stop being a sentimental sap. Leave a review and I'll give you all an update when I publish the next instalment.**

 **R.**


	20. Sequel: A Realm of Ashes

**Hey guys! Just a little update – here's the second instalment: A Realm of Ashes.**

 **/s/12813706/1/A-Realm-of-Ashes**

 **Please follow, favourite and review!**


End file.
